


Sugar and Gold

by regsregis



Series: Sugar and Gold [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Body Horror, Eye Injury, Handsome sorcerer Jack the AU, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Strangulation, Thighfucking, altered mind state, and his soon to be apprentice/new toy, and yeah some flaying, dark fantasy AU, implied light necrophilia, light use of drugs, necrobotany, reverse handojobs, skin pulling iff ur iffy, some canon typical violence, super-con as in the opposite of non-con or dub-con, yess my day has come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regsregis/pseuds/regsregis
Summary: Rhys and Vaughn, two not so smart villagers come up with -the best- plan to find a treasure many have failed to obtain, accidentally waking up some eldritch horror type of a parasite thing in the process so they need a certain super handsome sorcerer's help to tame it before it starts killing.It doesn't pan out.Originally Qvoro's AU I'm just tagging along for the drama and the collabs (http://qvoro.tumblr.com/post/159263948879) *wink wonk*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i may totally be winging it but i have some little plotpoints to reach, basically a study in breaking one unfortunate Rhysie.  
> Giant thank you to http://starfruitspice.tumblr.com/ for hacking away at the un-beta'd version and putting up w/ my shit.

Every story needs a good beginning, doesn’t it? Well, this one, as any other, starts with a crisp morning air, spring sun casting warmth over two trekking figures. And not unlike other stories, it ends in a life-long debt, a pact with the devil signed with a couple of specks of fresh blood.

-II-

The Sorcerer sighs, steepling his fingers together and fixing two burning eyes onto the figure before him. A young man, no, a -boy-, by his standards. But by his standards all humans are nothing more but children, playthings to the century old creature. He used to be like them but that was in the past and contrary to what all of the so-called wise men will tell you, past isn’t there for you to reflect upon, it’s there to be forgotten, shrouded in the passing years and shoved between the here and now like a splinter wedged under your thumbnail. However, a little reminiscing will give him the insight into the sorry state of the unfortunate fool who has shown at his doorstep mere moments ago, banging on the front door and demanding an audience with Handsome Jack. And this, in return, will hopefully give him access to the ancient power he can nearly smell, restless and buzzing and HUNGRY, tucked away somewhere under the thick, dark material covering his guest’s right side.

“So tell me little one, what brings you here?”

-II-

_Crisp, morning air fills noses on a deep inhale, pleasant sun warming backs and painting shadows before the two men. They are headed west, scavengers for lack of a better word, ragtag clothes and a spring to their steps, an overheard rumour, passed between the drunks at the tavern a fortnight ago, designating their destination. Further down the road and up over the crouched mountain a treasure is said to be hidden, waiting for someone brave or dumb enough to claim it but the folk are restless, hesitant to reach for it, the word of countless knights slain at the foot of the mountain traveling fast._

_But they are no knights, Rhys and Vaughn. Vaughn and Rhys, it has a nice ring to it, the former is smart, the only one in their village to be able to count the livestock before winter comes and the only one to know when the Handsome Sorcerer’s toll collectors demand more than it is due. The latter one, however, is the one to tell them off each and every time, to tell them to shove their demands where the sun doesn’t reach, often getting backhanded for that. But then the rest of the settlement comes, the blacksmith with his maul and the gruff barkeeper, brandishing a hefty beer stein, and they survive another winter._

_They are no knights and so they slink between the boulders, humble in their approach and treading carefully until one of the sharper turns of a steep rocky path has them coming face to face with the gaping mouth of a cave, the sides unnaturally sharp and definitely man-made. There is a hunched beast, carved out of onyx and with slivers of sun peculiarly reflecting not against the pointy edges but between the shadows pooling in the dips, perched over the entrance. To them, it looks like nothing more but an unrealistically well sculpted monument, the result of a twisted mind and a careful chisel but there is fire behind those unmoving eyes._

_The Warrior watches two dumb fools stumble into the hungry maw of a rundown castle with little care or interest, a gargoyle frozen solid in place for as long as the spiteful sun reigns over the horizon. It doesn’t matter, what lies within needs no protection._

_Entering a castle through the trap door comes with its perks. One of them being a treasury, located a little bit deeper into its guts but nowhere near as far from the main entrance, and the lack of any serious security measures does not baffle the two unfortunate rookie adventurers. It feels natural, the ebb and flow of the darkness, held at bay by the wavering light of a tar torch, each turn taken with carefully measured steps. So the glimmer of gold finally comes as a reward for the toilsome hours on their feet and the climb up the mountain. Not to mention that it is a promise of sated hunger, the whole village could easily live off of even a pocketful of golden coins, dusty and undisturbed, piled up with reckless abandon._

_“Vaughn! Just look at all of this!” There is no need to spur him on, the other man practically throwing himself face down into a mass of gold nuggets, pretending to be swimming._

_“I know! We should have brought bigger pouches. This is incredible!” Pockets, pouches and every free nook and cranny of their bodies stuffed with riches, crooked grins are shared between the two men and it’s time to head back, returning victorious, surrounded by eternal glory and fame. The flicker of the slowly dying light catches against something, drawing two warm brown eyes and prompting a furrow of bushy brows. Polished bones, a memory of the old king, sat sprawled on a humble throne in the far end of the chamber, but what draws Rhys’ attention is a goblet, the morbid sight disregarded completely as he watches a droplet of water, jet black in the darkness, fall into the tilted vessel. It calls to him, a siren’s song, not in his ear but at the base of his skull, crawling down his spine, irresistible pitch and a whispered oath. Step after step his feet take him closer, lured in and walking into a trap but the white noise suppresses the question, spoken in a louder voice and reverberating between the tall arches of a high ceiling, inquiring as to what’s keeping him there._

_Another droplet falls, for a moment frozen in time as his eyes widen at the reddish hue, a soft plip chased by the ever growing pressure clawing at something inside of him. Close enough that he can see the circles spreading outwards and with rabbit heart in his throat, Rhys skims his fingers over the rim of the goblet. It’s simple, encrusted with a couple of dark stones, their colour hard to discern in the darkness but then the moment of stillness is broken, a friendly hand coming to rest over his shoulder startling him and the chalice toples, some of the liquid splattered over his palm. The rest of it however, does not behave like any liquid he has ever seen, swirling in ropes on the chair and in between the bones, like blind snakes, their heads swaying left and right, scenting their surroundings before lurching forward. No matter how far back Rhys tries to scramble, stumbling over the strewn piles of small gems they follow after him like bloodhounds, single-minded and determined, reaching the tips of his fingers to bore in and under the skin. The alien feeling has him let out a scream, loud and high and utterly horrified, watching something move under the surface, slinking higher and spreading over his forearm, curled around one boney elbow and up to the shoulder._  
_It seems like that’s the extent of its reach, the movement momentarily settling down as both men stare in wide-eyed shock at the trembling limb. Something jabs at his skin, a row of pin pricks raising along the length of his arms, quickly turning into a piercing pain, tugging at the bones inside of his arms and by the gods, he never knew you could -feel- your bones shifting, changing and extending, nearly scorching trickles of blood beginning to stream down and dribble to the floor. There are spikes, carving their way through muscles and skin, tapered and pointing upwards once they settle and come to a still.  
It hurts like nothing has hurt before, open gashes around their bases and it takes a while for his mind to connect the raw scratch at the back of his throat with the echoing howl. _

_It hurts like nothing has hurt before but not like it hurts when whatever it is that has nestled under the surface solidifies. Encompassing the entirety of his arm, the black mass pulses in and then out, swelling and making the skin stretch to its limits and then begin tearing, larger portions dropping to the ground with a sick, wet sound. Vaughn is there for him, tugging his good hand away as Rhys tries clawing at the tar like tissue, fingers coming away bloodied and with flakes of dead skin under his fingernails. But there is nothing much he can do when the arm shoots forward, grabbing the other man by the face and forcing him to the ground. It acts of its own volition despite tender nerves sending the sensation of bone under squashed flesh back to his brain, another terrified cry torn from his lips when his fingertips begin to burn, a set of razor sharp claws cutting through the pitch black skin and then they are pressing into his friend’s face, dangerously close to one twitching eye. No amount of wishful thinking, laced with nearly paralyzing fear can help him regain control of his own damn arm, pained whines fueling his dread before they relent, bruises and deeper gashes forming on Vaughn’s face. But it is not done with them yet, aggression now directed at Rhys himself as a vice like grip clenches around his throat, flesh, mercifully human fingers trying to pry it away and his stomach sinks at the sight of a figure scrambling to his feet and dashing back towards the entrance and away from him. Vision slowly fading with the cut of airflow, suddenly snaps back, sounds, images and the stench of blood and dust springing back to his consciousness when the hand is finally torn away, someone rolling him onto his stomach and securing two flailing arms at his back with a thick rope._

_“Rhys? Rhys Rhys Rhys please, answer me?” The voice is brimming with concern and it makes the restrained man sigh a little bit easier, whole body twitching with every jerk of the clearly displeased limb._

_“Yeah. I’m…” He doesn’t know what he -is-, definitely not ‘fine’. “That was… really stupid, man, wasn’t it?”_

_“We need to head back, we need to get you help!” Well, Rhys couldn’t agree more._

_The sun nearly burns his eyes when they leave the cave, stumbling and supporting each other to the best of their abilities and he could swear the statue perched over the entrance tilts its head curiously as they pass it. But that might be the fever slowly consuming the rest of his body speaking, organism disoriented and trying to fight off and locate the origin of each and every new wave of pain despite there being no open wounds anymore apart from the bruise on his throat. Previously pleasantly cool air turns humid and suffocating, a threat of a violent, spring storm brewing over the horizon making the two men try to keep up a fairly reasonable pace, no longer caring about what may lurk around the corner. Neither of them notices that there is nothing willing to challenge the uncanny maliciousness, swirling and seething, confined to one lousy limb and currently bound, animals and bugs alike darting left and right to get away from the imminent danger._

_The village doesn’t want them, or more precisely, they don’t want Rhys, someone going as far as to chuck a pebble at them when they amble through the main street. The local witch doctor only secures the latch tighter when Vaughn slams his fists against the wood, ignoring the yells and threats. Completely at a loss they spend the night in the shed belonging to Vaughn’s parents, but also Rhys’ parents. An elderly couple who took under their wings a ragtag orphan that used to play with their eldest, an unlikely favour done in exchange for an extra pair of hands to help around the steading, now shucking him away and threatening with a pitchfork._

_It’s early morning, cocks and hens still asleep and a thick fog softens the harsh lines of the surroundings, when they finally make the hard decision. More or less cleaned up with a damp rag and wrapped up in a scavenged thick fabric, Rhys hops onto a mule, taking makeshift reins into his now free human hand, the other still secured behind his back as the rope chafes at the skin with each shift of his body. Brick, they have always called the animal, old and dumb thing but it will take him over the hills, past the centuries old graveyard and up along the royal road, to a hulking beast of a castle. Loneliness tugs at the strings of his heart, friends and family left behind and without Vaughn’s support it feels like he’s missing more than one limb._

_After all, he reckons, his only hope is to fight evil with evil._

-II-

The story was lengthy and Jack dozed off during some parts, his curiosity only picked during the gory parts and the description of the parasitic bond this kid has formed. One that should have outright killed him if Jack’s experience is anything to go by. 

“What will you offer in exchange for my help?”

He watches the lanky figure hesitantly come closer, digging through his pockets and fishing out a handful of golden coins. A nasty smirk curls the corners of his lips up, eyes scaling the pitiful pile now laid out on the table before him.

“That’s all I have… sir.” It doesn’t take much more than a wave of his gloved hand, restless magic thrumming through the webbing weaved into the metal of the gauntlet for the gold to transform, each piece losing its shimmer, turning a dull brown and growing eight legs. However, it does take a lot not to burst with laughter at the perplexed expression he’s receiving as the spiders scatter, running down the table and tumbling to the ground before scuttling into the shadows.

“Oh I’m sure you have plenty other things to trade.” Slowly rising to his feet, the Sorcerer stalks closer, intent gaze fixed on the wide open eyes. “Your time for example. Serve me for ten years and you will be free of this little curse of yours.” The curse isn’t little, and it isn’t something that will be easy to lift, but Jack has an inkling it could be controlled, used however he will please, with or without its current wielder’s consent.

“I… no, no I can’t do that. It’s like... nearly half of my life…” The kid is scared, shuddering when a clawed hand, energy still faintly coursing through the plating, comes to curl under his chin. Years mean nothing to Jack, and with time, his little loyal servant will understand that too, but so far, ten years sound like an eternity to a simple mortal.

“No? Then how about this. Ten years of your life and…” The tip of the metal claw swipes over the pronounced cheekbone and up to ever so gently press into the dip below a warm brown eye. He doesn’t take kindly to ‘no’s, raising the stakes with each and every one he gets. “...and that pretty eye of yours.”

“No, no, please, Brick! Take Brick, he’s a noble steed and will serve you well!” That brings a hearty laugh out of the Sorcerer, thumb sweeping down to rest over the corner of a trembling mouth. His servants told him the kid arrived riding a fucking mule but Jack can appreciate the attempt at barter, his captive clearly having a streak for driving a hard bargain. Or at least trying to do so. 

“Riddle me this child, you value services of a damned ass over yours? Or do you think me stupid?” Pretty, Jack concludes, the kid is pretty, even more so when barely lucid with fear. And so he shall keep him, but the decision as to -as what- will belong to the young man. Lips part but there is no sound coming out and only a vigorous shake of a head is the answer to Jack’s questions. “ Stepping over the threshhold of my castle, you've sealed your fate. Ten years of your life, one eye and after all is said and done, the arm itself. This or I will make you my private chamber pot boy.” In the Kingdom this profession was usually shucked onto unwanted bastards, captured enemies’ children or younglings who otherwise upset the people with enough power or money to afford slaves. Always there, always in the shadows of their master’s bedroom, muted so they would not pass on any secrets and mutilated to keep any thoughts of earthly pleasures at bay. Dreadful as the conditions needed to be met were, the job was simple. Clean up your master’s shit. Day after day with little perspectives for the future to speak of. “So? Which one is it going to be? Speak boy.” 

“Please… please just take it away from me.” It’s an eager little thing, and with enough patience and training, he may turn out acceptable at least. For now however, a hesitant hand reaches to gently prod at his gloved fingers, surprising Jack with how forward the kid seems to be, thumb urged back up and closer to one watering eye. “Take the eye, I don’t care, it’s a small sacrifice for becoming myself again.” Resolve, that’s what the Sorcerer likes to see, resolve and desperation, he oh-so-very much loves to see desperation. He steps back, tucking away the pleased smirk in favour of another bout of laughter, this time darker, ringing in the empty room.

“Silly thing, what do you expect me to do with a severed eyeball? Toss into my cauldron or just straight up pop it into my mouth like a tasty grape? What kind of image of me have you simple folks created? Fuck. I’m just going to occasionally borrow your eye. To see -through- it.” The surprised stare he’s receiving has him wondering if the kid isn’t too hung up on the idea of completely losing the eye and Jack using it like the soothsayers who claim to see the future in their little stupid magic balls do, to see the wider picture. Regardless, with time he will understand. “Then. Are you willingly going to become my servant, offering your left eye and right arm in exchange for your wish to be granted?” That’s just formality but he needs to hear it for the deal to be sealed.

“Yes.” That resolve, again, making the boy straighten up, standing a little bit taller than Jack and there is a flicker of steel in his eyes before he slouches again.

With a snap of fingers and a flick of a wrist, a parchment with the details neatly calligraphed appears, as do a single quill. Turns out the boy can’t write so Jack pricks his thumb with the tip of the quill and with an exasperated sigh, makes him press it at the bottom of the agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is an accidental dick joke in there. unplanned but beloved by now.

Between the dull, throbbing pain in his arm, phantom by now Rhys thinks, and the prickling sting in the left thumb, the worst is the twinge of his wounded pride. Ten years of sucking up to the Sorcerer and he can’t decide if he’s more scared of the man himself or the lost time. There has been a… gossip, whispered around the town, that those who sold their services to the Sorcerer never came back, the thought bringing back a memory of an older boy who used to live in their village, a scrawny ginger with more freckles than brains but a good egg nevertheless. He’s been gone for a couple of years by now, his family getting over his disappearance surprisingly quickly, too busy wasting away their mysteriously obtained funds. Regardless of what has happened to the good ole’ Timmy, Rhys doesn’t plan on following suit, maybe chance a look around the castle for the boy but he’s smarter than that, maybe not book-smart but definitely street-wise and he’ll grit his teeth and pull through this. He’s been through worse, Rhys thinks, he’ll make it work. 

He hasn’t. But that’s not the point and he obediently follows the command to ‘get going pumpkin’ as well as the trail of feathers, falling from the fluffed up shoulder pads, stepping deeper into the castle, down a staircase and into a… study room? The chamber is half lit, a single chair, sturdy by the looks of it, pulled into the middle, surrounded by various cabinets and work tabletops along the walls.

“Alright, time to show off the goods!” The Sorcerer sounds nearly giddy, the cheerful pitch of his voice making something inside of Rhys’ stomach curl uncomfortably and he tries to protest as the fabric of his cape is peeled from his shoulders, revealing the bound limb. However, his warning that it may not be the best idea to untie him just yet is completely disregarded, insistent fingers less than gently tugging at the ropes. 

“I’ve got this sugar, unless you like being all tied up and helpless. But we can get to that later.” The remark has him averting his eyes, the implication creepy but missing the point, his pure mind not having connected the dots. It turns out the man just -hasn’t- got this, black claws instantly springing free as the ropes fall to the ground, digging into the soft flesh of his throat and the motion pulls the boy forward and over the toppling man. Try as he might, there is no stopping the vile force, pushing the Sorcerer down and making Rhys need to brace himself against the ground with his human hand, effectively landing over the other man and straddling his chest. Well, this is awkward but he doesn’t have any wits left to ponder over the situation, stuck halfway through paralyzing panic and a smug feeling that he -had- told the Sorcerer to be careful. It’s mesmerizing, to watch the fingers break the skin and delve under it, clawing at the cartilage and he never thought he’d ever -feel- something like that, damp heat against his fingerpads, blood, darker than he’d expect, pooling around five entry points and running in rivulets down the arched throat. The claws, hidden from his eyes by now, their outline visible under the skin, creep higher, grazing the bone and the eyes, pitch black with golden irises rolling back have Rhys more than a little bit concerned for the safety of his would-be saviour. He knows better than to try and pry the hand away but does so regardless, his attempt at lifting himself up only ending in hefting the lying man off of the ground slightly, his head lolling back limply and the tips of his horns curling back behind his head scrape over the floor. 

“Hey, hey hey, man, don’t die on me, we had an agreement!” By now Rhys is nearly yelling, free hand patting the Sorcerer’s cheek. His struggling however skids to a halt as he catches a glimpse of gold peeking from under lowered lashes, tongue moving to languidly run over parted lips and there is a soft ‘mmm’ breaking the morbid silence. Brown eyes grow round, heart coming to a still for a brief second as he gives up on trying to stop his own arm, the limb still intent on burrowing farther under the skin, searching for something or maybe just trying to do more damage. Could the Sorcerer be enjoying himself? Sure looks like he doesn’t half mind what’s going on, eventually lazily reaching up to rest his gloved hand over the wriggling wrist.

“I think that’s enough…” His voice, scratched raw, choked and deep with a promise of power and ….something else, something else Rhys just can’t pinpoint yet, it does -things- to the boy, the situation not really allowing for a thought to be spared to try and figure it out. The magic however, untamed and pissed off, suddenly flowing from the Sorcerer’s hand knocks the wind out of his lungs as his right hand slumps down, completely withdrawing and flopping listlessly over the slowly rising and falling chest, fingers and claws painted dark crimson. It seems like it’s time for a payback, a warm hand, the one bare of any defenses wraps around his throat in return, thumb resting over the pulsepoint, clearly reveling in the frantic fluttering as he slides down the other man’s body, landing in his lap but with barely any time to decide whether he likes or not, before he’s being hauled up, the Sorcerer raising to his feet. Fingers digging into his hip hold them close together for a precious moment but soon enough he’s left dangling by his throat and the shoes scratching over the stone floor trying to gain some support only make the other man lift his arm higher. 

“You’ve spilled my blood little one. Quid pro quo sounds only fair, hmm?” He wants to protest, feet uselessly flailing in the air as his hand tries tearing away that unrelenting grip and he chalks his lack of understanding of the second sentence up to the buzzing in his ears, blood rushing through his veins, unable to drain below the crushing grasp. However, Rhys has a fairly good idea what’s in store for him, and the knowledge that the Sorcerer will make him pay for actions he did not commit willingly has his eyes rolling back in fear. Or maybe it’s the lack of air, vision blurring as he’s being dragged towards the center of the room and dropped unceremoniously onto the chair, gulping the air greedily as the pressure finally eases.

“Let’s leave that for some other day, shall we?” The tall figure leans over him, casting shadows and taking his right wrist into a gentle grip. “And let’s see what we are working with here.” A thumb traces along the plates replacing his skin and it’s only now that Rhys can finally safely examine his own arm, eyes skimming over the row of sharp spikes, the thickest one on his shoulders and they gradually become thinner as they progress all the way down to the back of his palm. If he squints and the light shines just right, a network of purple veins can be seen just below the skin, a little bit more visible where the sections interconnect. He knows it’s leathery to the touch, rougher than his own skin and less pliable but also, it’s just as sensitive as the rest of him, a fingerpad idly tracing little circles over the inside of his wrist sending a shiver down his spine. 

Eventually the Sorcerer pulls back, turning away and his studded boots clank against the stone as he moves about the room with easy certainty, grabbing a bottle here or a pinch of something there, mixing a salve in a mortar, with a pestle held steadily in one hand. Rhys relaxes back into the chair, intent eyes watching the working man, taking stock of the way he carries himself, flippant and careless most of the time but becoming instantly focused, shutting out everything outside of his tunnel vision when something piques his interest. Just like right now, broad shoulders hunched as he digs through one of the cabinets, his gauntlet and pocket watch previously attached to the flap of his long coat discarded on the worktop. All in all, Rhys concludes, the man doesn’t look the ‘sorcerer’ part, a yellow sweater with a high collar sewn into it under a vest, a sash around his hips billowing down the side of his thigh and a long coat with buckles along the bottom hem are far from the usual robes people tend to imagine wizards and sorcerers wear. On the other hand, Rhys hasn’t had any updates on the current fashion trends in the wizarding world so who he is to judge. The feathers, seemingly growing from under the shoulder pads are the ones that mostly fall into the ‘scary sorcerer’ category, even though they seem to be constantly molting, new, smaller and softer ones poking from between the longer ones. 

His musing is interrupted with the sound of someone clearing his throat and then, to his dismay, spitting.

“That has to be a joke.” Whatever fear and respect he holds for the other man are swept under pure unadulterated disgust. “You are not putting it anywhere near me!” 

The sorcerer simply shoots him a crooked smirk, seemingly done with the mixture after having added the last ingredient.

“Oh you will be begging for it later, sugar.”

-II-

Rhys ends up begging, maybe not for the salve itself, too far gone to form a straight thought but he begs for relief and for the pain to disappear. 

It has started fairly pleasantly, his shirt stripped off his shoulders, anxious at first when fingers begin skimming over his skin, dipped in something looking like harmless paint, cool but quickly warming up. Rhys is ticklish, the touch over his chest making him chuckle but as the Sorcerer works his magic, literally and figuratively, he drops into a more subdued, relaxed state. So deeply into it he is, that when the contact ceases, a low whine builds at the back of his throat, skin tingling with the aftertouch, a memory of intricate patterns being painted all over his left side. 

“What is it kitten?” This voice, crazy you know, previously so spiteful, hitching higher when the man became angered, now turns so soothing, soft like a lullaby and making him drowsy.

“More?” A small part of him can’t believe the needy undertones that have just slipped his own lips “Whatever you are doing, more?” And what has happened to all the ‘sir’s? Probably gone with the wind as he tried to strangle the other man to death.

“Oh baby, just making sure you won’t try to run from me…” It’s only met with a half lidded stare and a dazed nod, eyes falling shut when fingers move to card through his hair. Rhys leans into the touch as it darts lower and over his cheek, briefly nuzzling into the welcoming palm. One last element needs to be added, the blissful sensation returning for a fleeting moment to his bruised neck and sending more shivers through the whole body when a broken circle, another smaller one inside and two dots join the design. 

A flick of a wrist and a couple of murmured words in a language he doesn’t recognize make the paint sink into his skin, melding with it but also melding with the core of his being, engraved into his very soul. That however, doesn’t concern him half as it should, not a single ill thought on his blissed out mind. The same part of him as before, the last shred of lucidity, naggs at the back of his head, demanding to know if he’s out of his fucking mind, drugged or put under a spell, screaming for him to get up and run but it’s too late. It becomes obvious that it’s way too late when he willingly offers his good hand, the other limp and not protesting either, to be strapped to the armrests with heavy leather cuffs.

It turns out that his half drugged state seems to be helping a little bit with drowning out the pain as the Sorcerer begins carefully carving symbols with a thin blade smoothly gliding over the black skin and bringing out pinpricks of blood to the surface. It feels more like branding, the sharp tip scorching hot even as the gashes close nearly instantly in its wake. That has the other man scoffing, completely disregarding the pained sobs coming between harsh pants and the torture ends, his mind changed, set on a different solution. 

This brief break gives Rhys time to recover slightly and catch his breath, whatever magic has been etched into his soul effectively subduing any concern and making the memory of his torture lift off and dart away like a spooked bird. So when the other man returns, a hand on the back of his head tugging him closer until his cheek can rest against a broad chest, the scent of leather and electricity usually associated with imminent storm filling his nose, Rhys only breaths in deeper. Nose pushed into the soft material of the Sorcerer’s vest, his lips snag on one of the buttons as he tries mouthing some hardly rational words and the eyes casted upwards do not register anything off with the look he’s receiving in return beside the way black and golden eyes soften around the edges, a gimmick of his imagination but one he gives into readily. The hand holding him close and the intent stare keep him grounded and pliant, head locked in place despite the rest of his body twitching as the blade begins working away at the skin on his temple, leaving a shallow incision, deepened slightly along the curve of his skull to make a pocket for something small and smooth to be slipped inside. The feeling brings tears to his eyes, Rhys barely daring to blink in order not to lose a second of that focus, completely centered on him and him only but as soon as some of that salve, the very one he so vehemently refused to get anywhere near himself, gets slathered over the cut, his eyelashes flutter. Whatever pain there was, it’s gone, skin knitting over in an instant and leaving him numb. Numb enough that he barely notices something expanding there, building up and for once not breaking the surface but instead of melting with it and stacking up. Later, he will be surprised to see his reflection in the water, distorted as it will be but the sight and the feeling of smooth gems protruding from his temple will unmistakingly be there, for now, no bigger than half an inch across and maybe about as long. 

For now however, it makes a space for itself in his head, non-invasive but linking the left side of his brain and the eye attached to it with the man still cradling his head. In his drowsy state, Rhys supposed that’s how the Handsome Sorcerer’s magic works, deceptive but gentle, intangibly worming its way into whatever it wants to take possession of. He couldn’t be more wrong, ask the blasted remains of his enemies’ bodies, but that’s just the opinion of those who have gotten the short end of the stick.

This time, when the blade returns to carve into his flesh, tracing the same runes over the black skin, it feels more like an out of his body experience, brain completely addled and he hears himself scream but doesn’t register his vocal cords straining. Despite his best attempts, his body finally gives up, consciousness ebbing away, mind finally at peace and not a care in the world as he slumps down on the chair.

-II-

Jack straightens his back with a pop, cocking his hip and crossing arms over his chest. He did a mighty fine job here, the kid looks like a right mess, completely passed out, sweaty hair sticking to his face, bloodied and totally, utterly -Jack’s-. The white tattoos are nothing more than a leash, quite literally binding the boy to his new owner even though blatantly influencing other people’s thoughts and emotions is far too taxing for Jack to be willing to do it just like that, for fun. He has always prefered swaying people with his words and actions than magical manipulation anyway, however, this did turn out useful today, dabbing into the yet underdeveloped adoration and the need to feel ‘protected’ certainly giving him the much needed leverage to keep his subject pliant in his hands. The eridium on the other hand, etched into the skin at his temple allows for an easier control over the arm, a portal so to say, letting the Sorcerer in through the half transparent gems, also able to peek through that eye of his, iris now taking on a golden hue mimicking Jack’s own eyes.  
There is still work to be done, but today he will settle on finishing establishing connection he has just built, and leave taking his new toy apart and redesigning him from scratch for some other day. 

A couple of hours later he’s done, fixing the glove over his hand and tightening the straps holding the gauntlet in place. All that’s left is the pocket watch and he’s ready to do some testing. It’s not that he can’t cast spells without his gear, but hell, does it enhance his abilities, besides, he wouldn’t like to weave anything dangerous into his own body. The thought makes him snigger, ‘his’ body, that’s as much of an understatement as it is an overstatement, it took him a long, long while to bleach the freckles marring the skin and making him more irritable than usually. Regardless, he wouldn’t like to endanger his current mortal shell and enchanting an old malicious being, even if it’s just a sliver of it, latched onto a frail human, to do his bidding is nothing but a bomb waiting to blow up into his face if he ever slipped. He lets his powers flow through him, without direction for now, building up and swirling around his body until one inquisitive string separates to inch closer to the sleeping body, curiously brushing over the gems and once the rest of his powers catches a whiff of it, tremble of excitement rushing through them, they lurch forward, fighting amongst themselves for priority, and pour into the boy. 

Everything comes to a still sans the clawed fingers of Jack’s outstretched hand and the mirrored motion of black fingers tipped in equally sharp crooks. A chuckle raises in his throat but by the time it reaches his lips, it becomes a full blown laughter, loud, nearly maniacal and promising bloodshed and destruction. Even this cannot wake the sleeping figure and once Jack has had his fun, he gathers the boy in his arms, leather cuffs dropped carelessly onto the ground, and despite the less than pleasant smell of sweat blood and stables, he carries him outside of the study. After all, it wouldn’t be good if one of his servants has accidentally broken his new toy. 

Finding an unoccupied room in the castle isn’t much of a trouble, most of his staff strung together from raised undead and other otherworldly creatures these days, and so he drops the limp body onto a dusty bed and leaves him to sleep his ordeal off.

Two hours later Jack comes back, stalking through the darkness, cursing and pissed off beyond reason. May hell and damnation befall those flimsy creatures for making him drag his ass all the way back to the room to light up the fireplace, having remembered that they liked warmth and could possibly die from hypothermia. 

-II-

Rhys wakes up pleasantly warm, lazy and really fucking hungry. He wanders the empty corridors in search of either the Sorcerer or kitchen, wrapped in an old comforter and clutching it with both hands. Not to say that he isn’t grateful for the regained control but the sight of claws and spikes and all the scary shit that came with them has his good mood vanishing in an instant. Eventually, he stumbles across the latter but the pantry turns out to contain only molded or otherwise inedible food and the master of the castle finds him maybe an hour later, slumped by the table in the servants’ dining area and idly poking at the only not completely wrecked loaf of stale bread.

“What are you doing here lad? Work ain’t gonna do itself.” The defiant stare and droopy shoulders have the other man knitting his eyebrows in confusion as he tries placing the source of the boy’s sour mood. In the quietness of the room a rumble coming from Rhys’ stomach sounds like a thunder, clearly startling the both of them and deepening the confusion as it is met with a warning growl the other man lets out as if in an answer.

“A -starved- corpse ain’t gonna do the work either.” The Sorcerer looks like he’s positively hyperventilating at the rude remark and maybe the army of undead he’s known for would like to disagree with Rhys’ statement. Regardless, one pained expression and a wave of a gloved hand later and Rhys is digging into a feast of his life, something he’ll later grow to regret but for now too preoccupied with stuffing his face with the best food he has ever had to care.

“Be done with it quickly, I have a task for you.” 

The task turns out to be fairly simple, nothing he hasn’t done before although never in such circumstances. He runs back and forth, past the unmoving legion of various assorted limbs and weapons stitched together, stuffed in the far end of the courtyard, and to the well, fetching two buckets of water on each lap, pleasantly surprised that his new, upgraded arm seems to be far stronger, easily hauling an overflowing canister. Then it’s back to the castle, skipping up the three steps leading to the south wing and into a washroom, to pour the water into a large cauldron slowly simmering over the fireplace.

At first, having heard the man’s words and after his brain was done processing them, he questioned him. Couldn’t the oh so powerful Handsome Sorcerer just wave his hand and prepare his own bath? That got him a clip around his head and a growled warning that magic shouldn’t be messed with. His argument that he has just witnessed the man summon a small feast out of nowhere resulted in Rhys getting dragged through the front door by his ear, followed with a threat to get moving and a kick missing his ass by an inch.

It seems bizarre, not only the mundaneness of the task but also the idea that the royalty actually bathed in hot water instead of quickly scrubbing themselves in a bucket of cold water or splashing in a crisp, stinging cool stream. Rhys isn’t going to question this odd quirk this time, about to leave once the tub is almost full, lined with linen for whatever reason, when he’s stopped at the door.

“Sit down little one.” His eyebrows furrow, hoping to everything that is holy that he will not be asked to wash the Sorcerer’s back or come in any contact with him otherwise. Everything that’s holy has turned its back on Rhys when he’s sold his soul to the devil but thankfully, everything that’s evil in the world seems to grant his wish and he’s left to sit by the fireplace, legs curled underneath him and curious glances stealthily shot towards the undressing figure.

He has noticed it before, the man must have been well built, the outline of his broad body clear even under the numerous layers he wore but he wasn’t expecting the toned muscles or the crisscross of scars littering his body. He certainly wasn’t expecting an odd patch of freckles spanning between his shoulderblades either. Nudity doesn’t bother him, something you simply grow used to growing up with a large family but no one he has seen till now looked this good so there might be a little bit of ogling going on.

“Like what you see sugar?” The Sorcerer turns around, arms spread to the sides and not an ounce of modesty to cover his body. Rhys quickly fixes his gaze on his knees, he’s been told that staring is rude. 

“You ever take your mask off?” Better to steer the conversation away from his preferences.

“What do you mean? That’s my -face-.” There is a dangerous edge to the other man’s voice and so maybe it’s better to drop the topic as the sound of splashing water fills the room. As do the scents of some bathing products, strong and irritating when they overpower everything else. 

The Sorcerer however seems to be in a chatty mood, asking about his life with mild curiosity and offering clipped answers in return which only raise more questions. He learns, in response to his accusations that the mage didn’t deliver on his promise to lift the curse, that what his right arm has ‘caught’ is actually a parasitic organism, forming a co-dependency with its host and while it feeds off of his life energy, it can be used to further his own goals. Jack, he finally discovers his new master’s name, promises that if he’s going to be a ‘good boy’ he will teach Rhys how to fully control its potential and put it to a good use. It feels like a large portion of truth is still missing but he figures that he has ten long years ahead of him to get to the bottom of it.  
They talk for a little while longer, about everything and nothing, Rhys reclining a little bit more comfortably with his back against the wall, watching the soaking man, and the way he leans forward with his elbow slung over the edge of the tub and sharp chin resting against his forearm. What draws his attention is the gentle curve of his shoulder, how he seems to relax and how he idly scratches at the base of one of his mismatched horns when a question has him in a pinch.

The steam rolling lazily around the room has his hair twisting into messy curls, prompting an uptenth push of his fingers through them and an annoyed sigh. When the Sorcerer deems himself sufficiently pampered, he steps out of the tub and drapes a billowing fabric of a robe over his shoulders, a strap tied around narrow waist making it cling nicely to his hips.

“Now you are only missing a pointy hat to look like a real sorcerer.” The remark doesn’t seem to be appreciated, Jack stomping closer and glowering.

“Don’t test my patience kid, get your scrawny ass into the tub before I change my mind and toss you into the moat to get acquainted with the alligators.

Rhys doesn’t risk asking what alligators are but knowing the Sorcerer’s reputation they probably breath fire, and so he quickly scrambles to his feet, dropping his clothes with haste and hops into the water without another word.

Oh.  
OH.  
So that’s why the rich folk like to heat up the water, the extra effort suddenly making more sense as he sinks into the warmth, only a mop of ruffled hair and mismatched eyes, crinkling in the corners stay above the surface. Even though he’s going to end up smelling like roses and what not.  
Worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't think i'll have time to write tomorrow so unfortunately there won't be anything new before monday/tuesday  
> as always much love to my patient beta  
> (also, i have been accidentally calling gauntlets greaves the whole time lmao, lemme fix dat rl quick)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yo like remember i said i wont have time to write today? well i have no impulse control oh well.

The next month brings accidental scratch marks left all over the place with careless claws and more back talking than Jack is willing to put up with. He finds solace in fucking with the kid every time he gets a chance, his top favourite past time activity being making the ‘evil hand’ as Rhys, much to Jack’s dismay, has started calling it, twitch when he carries out his daily duties. Which always results in a dropped cup or other form of mild destruction, followed with a mock-pretend furrow of sharply angled eyebrows and a due punishment. 

He has given the kid -everything-, new fancy clothes, a place to sleep and a pantry full of food. Which, if you care for the Handsome Sorcerer’s opinion, his servant polishes off in a matter of way too few days. All he wants in return is peace and quiet, swept floors and a goddamn drink delivered to his desk every now and then so he can keep digging through the old tomes that has accumulated throughout the span of his long life. By now he has fully figured out the identity of the malicious entity or rather, a sliver of it, that has made itself feel at home in a scrawny limb, the rest still stranded in the hold belonging to its previous host. It’s not the parasitic creature that has his attention however, but the power that came with subduing it. The Warrior. One of its most devoted servants and a deadly ally Jack would really like to add to his arsenal. Hell, nothing would even -dare- to stand in his way then, the immeasurable power at his disposal. His thoughts idly stray to his favourite topic, overthrowing the currently ruling king and seizing control of the Kingdom for himself but before he can delve deeper, picturing himself with a crown snugly sat atop his handsome head, a pesky voice drags him back to the reality of a late evening.

“Couldn’t you do some of that wavy handy dandy thing and just -clean up- after yourself for once?” Rhys has grown bold, nagging him all the time about needing to go through simple, everyday tasks that could be done with a flick of Jack’s wrist, currently shaking his broom in his master’s general direction and it grates on said master’s nerves beyond reason. Yeah, sure, the kid will cower in fear and scuttle away every time a voiced is raised to remind him of his place but what he needs, in Jack’s opinion, is a more permanent reminder of how unimportant his existence is to the powerful being oh-so graciously taking him under his wings. And he just might have the right idea in mind.

“You don’t find yourself enjoying current duties little thing?” He might have picked up on how the lower pitch of his voice and softer words seem to easily placate his fussy servant, and as he takes a step closer, a gentle, if completely fake, smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Rhys in return, and as always when the mood turns like this, follows suit also stepping a little bit closer, subconsciously drawn in. “Want me to find something more challenging and pleasant to do sugar?” Another step closer, Jack’s hips picking up on a little sway, head giving the slightest tilt and as a reply he gets two round eyes, staring into his with glazed-over bewilderment and cheeks turning a little deeper shade of pink. He raises his hand, palm up and fingers lightly curling inwards in an invitation, body just on the right side of slightly bowed, his other hand tucked at the small of his back and keeping the flap of the long coat flicked. “Come here sweetheart.” A curl of his index finger has Rhys hesitantly closing the distance and gingerly placing his own hand into Jack’s open palm, soft skin against rough and burning one. “Perhaps you could use a little change of -perspective-, hmm?” A nod is all he gets, and his own thoughts stray for a second as he watches the kid softly bite down onto his lower lip and sway subtly on the balls of his feet, curious and brimming with expectations as to what exactly is being offered here. The second passes and Jack acts, nasty smirk curling his mouth, canines displayed, as his grip tightens, a tug given till they collide chest to chest and he already is letting the lecherous appendages of his powers reach for the boy greedily, not taking over his body this time but wrapping around it.  
He has heard that the procedure is quite unpleasant, magic making your bones compact and fold, flesh tucked in on itself, and skin growing suddenly too tight, lungs and heart unable to keep up with the changes leaving you light headed and short of breath. Empty, loose clothing falls onto the ground, pooling carelessly on the floor, still specked with the few stray feathers that have started the whole thing.  
He keeps his fingers tightly curled, the tiniest of frantic heartbeats against his skin as he walks over to his desk, plopping down onto the chair with a pleased hum before finally unclenching his fist.  
Two perky ears twitch as they try picking up the suddenly louder sounds, mismatched beads of gold and brown eyes fixed on him, and whiskers bristling furiously. The small critter he’s holding in his hand has a dull brown fur, but a black left paw, a long tail loosely curled around its hind legs, and most probably a heart attack. With mild curiosity Jack notices some sentience returning to his now miniature servant as he finally moves, head swaying left and right, following the scents, clearly trying to run away and hide but there is nowhere to go, held high above the ground. It doesn’t seem to register with his tiny brain however, lurching forward, and the Sorcerer needs to turn his hand over, watching the little mouse run over his knuckles, tiny claws scratching over the skin, and dart again between them, trying to find safety under the curl of his fingers. Just to torment this annoying little shit a wee be more, he lets him drop from his palm, catching the critter by the tail and raising it to his eyes.

“How is it hanging sugar? Finally growing some appreciation for my good graces?” Jack is fairly sure that his teeth must look that little bit sharper and bigger up close and he doesn’t mind showing them off in a wide grin, the expression prompting a distressed squeak.  
“Never had a ma’ to tell me not to play with food but I think I’ll pass on the snack for now.” The mouse struggles all the more panicked but once he sets him down on the table, a strict order to stay put has him freezing completely sans for the fluttering whiskers. So, turns out Rhys’ bird brain has managed to fit into his tiny new skull without losing the ability to fall in line.  
He takes his sweet time, moving to the middle of the room and clapping his hands to conjure a small whirl of wind that sweeps over the open space, ending with a twirl just before Jack’s feet, all of the previously scattered feathers now neatly piled up on the floor. It might have been said before that the magic shouldn’t be used for one’s amusement but let us be honest here, he’s only doing it to teach his servant a lesson as opposed to having fun. Taking a good handful of the feathers, he settles them beside the trembling rodent, another flick of his wrist and they turn into a vast, assorted pile of various gemstones. Garnets, rubies, diamonds, all that jazz, the sheer quantity stunning and it could easily buy a whole castle. “Alright princess, get going, I want them sorted out by morning.” And with that and a hellish chuckle, he leaves Rhys to his new task. 

Morning finds him early on his feet, spring to his step and an off-tune whistle on his lips as he lazily strolls back to the library and the undoubtedly unsorted mess of precious stones. It turns out that the pesky kid has indeed managed to finish his task, everything piled into smaller pyramids and although Jack spots a couple mistakes, (is that a peridot in the emerald’s cluster? how offensive) he’s quite frankly left impressed. The resourcefulness is rewarded with a few pets over the small head and a scratch behind one perky ear, the critter clearly preening at the reward, most probably having resigned himself to his fate as he doesn’t try running away again. A snatch of his hand and one pathetically flailing rodent later the spell is lifted and he stares down the length of his nose at the naked figure curled at his feet.  
On their knees and sobbing, just how he likes them. 

“What did you learn today boy?”

“I’m sorry ... I’m sorry, won’t do that again, I’ll do my chores, please please don’t turn me again.” The kid crawls closer, trembling hands clawing at Jack’s ankle and he gets a tearful gaze shot his way as Rhys keeps feverishly sobbing his apologies. “Gods, I am so, -so- sorry.”  
With the way he’s nearly clinging to Jack’s leg, head bowed down, his face has to be fairly close to the flicked tip of the Sorcerer’s boot, close enough that the involuntary twitch at incurring the names of the Old Ones, has him bumping it into the soft flesh a little bit too harshly. Rhys jerks his head back, lower lip busted and with tears threatening to spill from his eyes. 

“Keep those apologies coming but do not call onto the Gods. They are kind of pricks, you know.” Jack and the Gods do not really agree, the latter ignoring the fists angrily shaken at the heavens for most of the part. What he however agrees with, totally and utterly, is the way the kid eagerly leans forward, boldly pressing his bloodied lips back to the shoe, misunderstanding the cues but it’s not like the Sorcerer will stop him. Not with how his brain seems to be short circuiting currently, eyes fixed on the curve of the boy’s back, spine protruding and despite not being able to see exactly what’s going on down there, the very idea of it sends a pleasant spark south his body. He has to ball his fists at the muted sensation of light pressure skimming over the top of his foot, clawed hand tightening slightly around the back of his ankle and the power trip he’s riding right now sends his mind reeling. It’s one thing to break someone down and watch them wallow in hatred as he forces them to do something this humiliating but it’s an entirely different thing to have someone do so of their own accord, simply to please and placate the Sorcerer, no prompts needed. Sensing the attention focused on him, Rhys tilts his head, staring up with watery eyes and idly nuzzles the leather upper. Jack’s nostrils flare, body going rigid as he does his best to resist giving into his instincts. It wouldn’t do right now, he’s not after a quick fix, tempting as it may sound and so he slowly, ever so slowly, crouches, feet firmly planted against the ground and for a second indulges himself, soft locks gliding smoothly under the fingertips, as he pushes back the unruly hair back to its usual slicked back position, finally reaching the back of this dumbass’ head so he can get a better grip. With a fistful of longer hair, Rhys’ head is dragged up to meet the stare of golden eyes, narrowed down to slits and shadowed by furrowed eyebrows.

-II-

“Do not play with fire child. Get your things and get the fuck outta here.” The voice is deceptively calm, each word straining against the snarling lips before being forced out and Rhys can’t remember the last time he has run this fast, bare feet slapping against the cold floor and clothes desperately clutched to his chest. He thinks the Sorcerer’s spell might have gone sideways because it still feels like his heart is that of a scared mouse, frantically thumping in his chest even as he reaches his room, hands against his knees and air burning his lungs. Has he overstepped the line? The other man seemed pleased at first with his little attempt to placate him, a memory of someone tossing an idle comment how the royalty loved to have their boots licked spurring the poor boy on, but suddenly the mood has changed, heavy and charged and Rhys thought for a moment he wouldn’t make it out of the room, hungry eyes nearly devouring him on the spot.  
Now that he has time to ponder over this, he hasn’t ever seen the Sorcerer eat anything, and given how baffled he usually was when Rhys came to him demanding food, it must have been something his ilk just didn’t do. Or maybe he fed his powers with the flesh of virgins and what have you nots, maybe he liked to nibble on young, innocent boys if the indecipherable looks he sometimes shoot towards his servant were anything to go by.

Oh how could Rhys by so right in his misunderstanding.

Unclutching the pile of clothes from his fingers, he carefully lays it down on the bed, fingers brushing over the soft fabric. They are really nice, nicer than what he ever had, a stripped shirt with laces to hold it together coupled with something akin to an open robe with a hood and one sleeve cut off to expose the ‘evil arm’, spikes rendering it rather not so sleeve-friendly and a blue sash, similar to what the Sorcerer wore himself, blue and silky, going over a simple pair of pants.  
He has a good thing going on here, Rhys reckons, food, shelter and protection, even though he has to put up with Jack’s ever changing moods. What however has him restless when he’s not actively busy with his duties, is loneliness. In his free time he likes to snoop around the castle, abiding by the strict rule to stay away from the dungeons stretching below the upper levels, but he has yet to come across something friendly and well… alive. The shambling corpses of the Sorcerer’s army turn out to be fairly bad at holding a conversation and the monsters he has come across so far, dragons and wyverns mostly, paying little mind to a toothpick loitering around, unknowingly to him, thanks to the bond etched into his skin. Rhys misses his friend and family despite harbouring a degree of disdain for them for turning their backs on him and the solitude has him virtually latched onto the only human, or as human as he can be perceived as, creature in the castle. The Sorcerer ignores him for most of the time, unless he’s making fun of him but in the rare moments he isn’t, Rhys greedily soaks in the attention he’s receiving, an odd pat to his head or a snarky remark that has him laughing, committing to memory every sliver of knowledge that slips those thin lips. He figures the other man must be lonely too if he doesn’t mind accepting the company of a peasant, or maybe Rhys is just an all around fun guy to keep around, hard to say. 

Regardless of Jack scaring him shitless, he isn’t deterred in the least, following the other man around the castle the next day. And the day after. Except he manages to keep his grumbling at bay, the memory of how the world suddenly grew bigger and scarier and how he was toyed with still fresh in his mind.  
It manages to keep him up at night, conflicting emotions swirling in his head as he tries to sort them out, the task proving way harder than arranging pretty, shiny gems in ordered piles.  
On one hand, he cannot forget those fleeting moments of -safety- he occasionally experiences around the powerful man, making him want to crawl back to him, tail tucked between his legs and neck exposed so he can beg for more.  
_“Please, please, please more.”_  
He has a vague memory of uttering those words before but it seems unreal enough that he attributes it to a dream.  
_“Take me. Break and destroy but do not let anything else hurt me.”_  
It doesn’t sit right with him, but the fleeting touches or scant praise make something in his stomach flip, an instinct to just submit and please and be -rewarded-.  
On the other hand, the evil one if you care for precision, a nearly blinding envy burns through the young man. He might have grown up in poverty, with little education and understanding of how the world worked but he does not lack in ambitions. Ambitions which now might be presented with a chance of becoming reality. He lusts after the Sorcerer, craving the sheer power that the man exerted and wanting nothing more than to be -like- him. To be him and to have everything at the snap of his fingers.  
Rhys doesn’t mind sharing this last detail with the other man, knowing well that, if anything, it will serve to stroke his ego. And true to the expectations, Jack throws his head back and bursts with laughter.

“Oh child. You couldn’t be more wrong.” The Sorcerer seems to be in a peculiar mood, stalking closer as Rhys keeps backing away until his back hits the wall. A gloved hand curls under his chin, thumb pressing just below his lower lip and he grows all the more acutely aware of how close they are, boxed in between a cabinet on his left and an arm on his right.  
“The more powerful you grow, the more you realize some things are just beyond your grasp little one. And there is nothing, no half measures to satisfy that craving”

“I like to think you are a man that can have everything” Rhys has to swallow, golden eyes roaming over his face making his throat go suddenly dry but he doesn’t let how flustered he is show, lips tugged into a gentle smile.

“Aren’t you just a delight.” His answer must have pleased the Sorcerer, who stays close a little bit too long, stuck in Rhys’ proximity as if wanting to say more before eventually ending up pulling back. The echo of the low rumble of his voice sticks to the boy’s consciousness and he’s left there, back slumped against the wall and fingers of mismatched hands twined, holding onto himself because he has nothing else to hold onto. 

-II-

It’s another couple of days before the kid drives him mad again. Not intentionally this time but that doesn’t make his anger any less tempered. They are stuck in the library, Jack currently burning through one of his bouts of frantic working, as he impatiently motions for his servant to pass him one of the books he needs, so deeply engrossed in the ancient script he’s reading right now that the tip of his nose nearly traces over the faded ink. 

The book that lands on the table beside him is not the one he has asked for, and quite frankly, he suspects that Rhys has just randomly grabbed the nearest one. 

“Not this one idiot. I need the scribe on magical hexes and sacrifices!” There is an annoyed huff that he doesn’t bother paying attention to, a little scuffling and another book presented to him. A tome treating about food poisoning. That has him lurching to his feet, fury boiling inside of his veins as he grabs the boy by his face, claws digging into his cheeks and drawing blood. “Useless. Useless idiot I should turn you into a roach a squash under my heel!”

“How should I know which book you need?!” Jack can see the panic-stricken eyes darting around the room but the tone in which the words are delivered is annoyed, even though Rhys looks like he immediately grows to regret saying anything.

“Can’t read. Can’t write. Can’t do shit, what do I keep you for?” The look he gets for that is nearly heart-broken, eyes turning watery and dejected. Which makes him all the more irritated, shoving this stupid child against the side of the table, crowding him and looking for an outlet for his rage. His other hand shoots to wrap around the slim throat, clawed fingers moving to fist into the hair at the back of the boy’s head, tugging it back and this insufferable idiot has the audacity to gasp, body trembling against Jack’s.

“Then… teach me.” It’s choked out, voice raw and struggling to push through the tight grip around his throat but it strikes the Sorcerer with its honesty and barely contained eagerness. “Please?”

“Just what are you asking here for child? I do not give away knowledge just because someone is an incompetent fool.” However, the curiosity and the pleading has him releasing his chokehold, hand dropping to simply rest over the boy’s chest and Jack finds great delight in feeling the frenzied heartbeat against his palm.

“Let’s strike another deal. I’ll give you whatever you want. Teach me, how to read and write and count. I know there is power in those stupid books of yours. I want it.” By the end of his offer, Rhys is breathing heavily, intent eyes fixed on Jack’s and he pushes slightly against the hand at his chest and away from the one gripping his hair. So close they are that the Sorcerer notices the slight dilation of his pupils and the flush creeping up his neck and over his ears, spreading across the bridge of his nose. The trembling is still there but now, it’s more of a shiver of anticipation, a light vibration he can sense over every inch of contact between them. It proves to be distracting enough that he needs a longer while before giving the answer, but hopefully, the kid will chalk it up to careful consideration instead of scattering thoughts.

“Fine…” He wants to add something more but suddenly there are arms coming around his neck, claws scratching over his back and the fleeting if rather suffocating embrace effectively knocks whatever words and breath he had out of his lungs.

“Yes!” And just like that the boy is gone, darting around the room and only pausing when he has a sliver of parchment and a quill in his hands, skidding to a stop just before the Sorcerer. “My name first. Please. So I can have a signature proper.”

“Eager, aren’t ya? Decided yet what you want to trade?” The bouncy reaction has Jack chuckling, arms coming to cross over his chest and no intent to move as he watches some of that hope drain from mismatched eyes. 

“I uh… iunno, told you it feels like you have everything…” His shoulders droop, human fingers coming to idly trace over the inside of his other hand, absentmindedly drawing little circles against the black skin. 

“Oh I’m fairly sure you must have -something-, sugar.” The lecherous leer speaks volumes of the man’s intentions but yet again, it flies straight over Rhys’ head. “I’ll tell you what baby boy, give up on one desire, let me have it to toy and play with as I see fit. Something of my choosing, I’m taking a risk here because if you do not have it in your heart, I will come up empty handed. But I like gambling. Whatcha say?”

Beside lust for power, rivaled only by his gluttony, the kid hasn’t exhibited any other desires, but Jack has a taste for something very particular and he’s curious to see how it will play out.

“Sounds fair. Name. Now.” The demands bring out more sniggers out of him but it’s enough of a prompt to get moving and so he leans over the sitting boy, one hand over his shoulder, the other moving to scribble four letters on a piece of paper. The word is mostly made up as he has no idea how to actually spell it but let it be known that the Handsome Sorcerer loves naming his new toys, making them all the more his.

_R H Y S_

“Rhys. I like how it looks.” The kid nods, stroking his chin as if he was admiring a painting or another piece of art and Jack grows all the more proud and pleased at that.

Turns out long, curved claws and an unskilled hand are just on the wrong side of the combination needed to hold a delicate quill. The nib breaks almost instantly but Rhys is quick to figure out an alternative solution, first tracing over the letters with his index finger, sharp tip lightly scratching over the rough surface and then he dips it into an inkwell to shakily repeat the motion a couple of times before he decides he’s ready to sell another piece of himself.

“Nu-uh, has to be blood, none of that bullshit ink sugar.” That has him pausing mid gesture, pondering for a while as he wipes the hand into the soft material of his pants, the stain making Jack cringe. He supposes he will be dealing with spilled ink and blotches marring every inch of the castle soon enough though. Eventually, and to the Sorcerer’s surprise, a claw rests over pouting lips, pressing until it draws a speck of blood, followed by a thoughtful hum. Quite unusual but he has caught his servant nibbling on his lower lip multiple times before so maybe that’s just something the kid enjoys, bizarre as it may sound.  
A quick scribble and the contract is sealed, Rhys leaning back on the chair and running his tongue over the shallow cut, seemingly more intent on irritating it than letting it heal over.

“So? What did I just sell? My undying desire to shove more of those sweet buns you sometimes summon into my face? Or will you now share my need for the floors to stay feather-less and do something about it yourself?” Mismatched arms come to cross over the chest and Jack would be berating him for acting this cocky, maybe threatening to turn the boy back into a small rodent but he’s too fixated on the bead of crimson that has formed on a plump lower lip, smudged when teeth briefly press over it and reforming after a little while. 

Where were they again?

Ah. Right. Desires. Well, technically his thoughts didn’t stray that far from the topic, lips curling over sharp canines as Jack’s attention snaps back to the reality.

“Vengeance. You gave me your vengeance my -apprentice-.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids hey hey care for some delish fanart? *opens the coat* just give me a sec :^)  
> http://starfruitspice.tumblr.com/post/159397274438 there it is


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gory! watch urself!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> manged to post that just before sunrise, go me!

The Sorcerer makes good on his promise and days become a little bit brighter and no longer a drag. They figure out the best way to go about Rhys’ penchant for instantly decimating new quills is to start all over and have him use his non-dominant hand which at first is as frustrating as you could imagine but with time and practice, the letters slowly develop into something moderately legible.  
These days, aside from the accidental scratch marks, four letters idly scribbled with a sharp claw join the new trend in the castle’s decor, as he’s still absolutely delighted with how a few loosely assembled lines can mean so much.  
Reading however is something completely different, once he gets a hang of it there is no stopping the curious boy from snooping around the library and driving Jack mad with gradually less and less stuttered words muttered under an overly excited breath. The Sorcerer barters away the first spell for some goddamn quiet one evening but quickly grows to regret his decision as he ends up needing to deal with perpetually dimmed lights around the castle and one overjoyed apprentice prancing about with a wisp of fire sprouting from the center of his palm until he accidentally sets the curtains in the study room aflame.

That accident ends up with an embargo on spells, a constant, low headache and a promise to teach the boy the art of potion brewing.

Rhys is a diligent student, soaking in the knowledge with as much dedication as he does with greed. 

He’s currently holding onto a thin knife, one normally used for flaying and an order to extract a still beating heart of the small animal he’s keeping in his hands. The whole potion thing turns out to be fairly boring, glorified cooking in his humble opinion. What difference does it make, snapping a chicken’s neck and then portioning it or catching a bat and doing virtually the same thing, same shit. The lousily carved out heart gets carelessly tossed into the cauldron, the Sorcerer standing with his back to it thankfully, and he watches in horror as a lick of flame bursts from above the surface and catches onto the tip of one of Jack’s horns. Uh-huh. So maybe not same shit but he’s fairly sure tossing a couple extra of those super spicy chillies he had once stumbled across in the pantry into a stew would set any man’s horns on fire.  
Licking his fingers, Rhys slinks closer, creeping behind the working man who seems to be deeply engrossed into whatever he’s doing and with a little bit of luck and a deft hand, he manages to extinguish the little disaster waiting to turn the castle into dust and ashes. 

“What are you doing there you lazy…” The Sorcerer whips around and comes face to a very guilty face, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “What are you doing -here-?” 

“Well…” Rhys sidesteps to the left, trying to put himself between the other man and the content of the cauldron which has just turned the wrong shade of sickly green. He has to think of something quickly else his little mistake will be discovered before he can somehow fix it. “...I’ve been meaning to ask for a favor?”

“What is it? Haven’t you had enough of those lately? I am not summoning any more sweets for you, little greedy thing.” Jack seems to have picked up on something going horribly wrong behind him as he’s currently trying to discreetly sneak a peek over the boy’s shoulder, the couple of inches he’s lacking coming to save Rhys in a nick of a time.

“No no, nothing like that… I’d like to uhh visit my family. If that’s fine. I want to let them know I am still alive.”

“You want it so badly you had to creep behind my back?” Arms crossed over a broad chest never foretell anything good coming, nor does a nasty smirk curling thin lips. “Think they even care?”

“Yes. And yes. Of course they do. We may… not have parted on good terms but I’m sure they do care. So. Can I go? Please? I’ll be back within a day!” His distraction has worked but just to be sure he turns all dopey-eyed and pouty, a little magic trick of his own which rarely fails to sway the Sorcerer. 

“Fine. Have it your way. Don’t come crying to me if they kick you out again.” Well. His distraction has worked and on top of that he accidentally managed to get the question he has been meaning to ask for a while now off of his chest.

Perhaps however, he shouldn’t be giving himself a mental pat on the back as he turns around to try and figure out how to fix his potion because he misses a dangerous glint in his master’s eyes and an even nastier smirk on his lips.

-II-

He takes Brick with him, for company as much as to return the animal back to its rightful owners. Rhys owed them that much. 

Skirting around the edges of the village, he finally gets to the remote end of Vaughn’s parent’s farm and hops onto an old tree, one of its branches polished smooth and stripped of the bark after years upon years of two asses rubbing it down every evening. All that’s left is a long wait till the sun begins setting down and he digs into the supplies he snatched from the castle.

Vaughn shows up at the same time he always would, head lowered and kicking a small pebble, so he doesn’t spot his guest, jumping nervously at the voice coming from above him.

“Need a hand shorty?”

It feels like time has turned around, taking the both of them back to simpler times as he leans down to haul his friend up and onto their favourite spot. The sun paints the horizon a gentle orange hue as Rhys goes about recapping the events of the last two months, some details skipped, some exaggerated.

“So. Let me get this straight. You willingly became the most feared Sorcerer’s apprentice. You’re learning magic and the ‘evil arm’ isn’t trying to kill you anymore.”

“Something like that. Wicked, isn’t it?” Rhys is sporting the biggest grin, eyes crinkling in the corners and the company of his best friend makes him feel more relaxed than he had in a long time. “Life ain’t bad. There’s food and I’m thinking, I’ll be able to come here every now and then.”

“Rhys… I don’t know if that might be the best idea… people have been talking about you.” That hasn’t had him concerned in the least, sure, people do gossip but it couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Turns out yeah, it could and as soon as they walk up to the main road, cutting through the center of the village, some familiar faces show around. A group of bullies they have bumped their heads with before a couple of times but avoided ever since. They are dumb, thick-headed and brutish enough that on couple occasions both Vaughn and Rhys ended with an odd black eye or another of their baby teeth lost before learning their lesson. They grew up to be even dumber and more aggressive but effectively served as the village’s militia, chasing away strangers that happened to stumble across this desolated place.

“Would you look at that, the beanstring freak is back. Came around for some beating Sorcerer’s scum?” There is a tug to his sleeve and a murmured advice to better get going ends up completely ignored. “Or did you come to snatch your bestie and turn him into a freak like yourself? No worries, we’re taking good care of him…” The only reply he gets to the concerned look he’s shooting towards his friend is a small shrug and further hunch of his shoulders. That cannot be good and Rhys is itching to finally show off his new powers, to put those bullies in their place for making Vaughn look this dejected. 

What he doesn’t anticipate however, is a flicker of light gleaming off of an unsheathed dagger.

“There is no place for cuckoo strays like you.” They don’t seem all that intent on scaring him away as they are simply looking for a fight to pick and Rhys readily gives into it, hands balled into tight fist.

-II-

In hindsight he probably should have asked the Sorcerer to also teach him how to fight because he’s losing the one he has currently gotten himself into. They will pay for it, Rhys thinks as he clutches the injured hand to his chest, blood lazily rolling down one of the sharp spikes. 

_An eye for an eye._

It’s healing over fairly quickly, as it always did, just like it did when Jack tried carving symbols into the arm the first time and just as it did every time he accidentally nicked himself on something, ever the clutz. However, one of the boys is already stalking closer and Rhys moves to position himself between them and his friend, the memory of the abuse they have put him through still fresh in his mind and clouding his vision.

_That’s right sugar, let that anger flow._

“Master!?” So he did not imagine the voice before. Has the Sorcerer followed him? A quick scan of his surroundings bears no result as to the source of the snigger he can hear clear as day. 

_Easy lad, I’ve got you. Focus on what is going on and I’ll walk you through it._

“Jack!”

“Look at this fucking shithead! Calling the Sorcerer won’t save you.” 

People start gathering around the commotion that has broken out and there is not a single sympathetic face in sight, the blacksmith tightening his grip around his maul and the barkeeper is brandishing a cleaver. Quite the witch hunt they have going on here today. They are the people Rhys has known for all of his life, the ones that pretended not to notice the sleeping boy curled by the slowly dying fire pit in the smithy and the ones who would slip him some leftover pottage at the end of the day, way before he got taken into Vaughn’s family. They are there too, all of his adopted cousins and uncles and aunts and their faces are twisted with hatred as they chant with the rest of the riled up crowd. It’s the same kind of alienation he vaguely felt when Vaughn dragged his delirious body back to the village, but back then it was muted, something at the back of his head. But to hell with that, after learning what has taken possession of his right arm, he couldn’t really bring himself to blame them. Couldn’t forgive either, not ever, but he -was- dangerous back then and now he isn’t.

“Monster!” Out of all the things they say, this one strikes him the most. He isn’t a monster, is he? He’s just… Rhys, their Rhys, they have known him since forever. 

_You are not, pretty boy. You are mine._

The voice makes him claw at the side of his head, trying to get to it, to get away from it, but the deeper sharp tips dig into the skin the louder it becomes. The duality of the situation, torn between the insistent voice in his head and the imminent danger around him has him curling in on himself, panicked and scared of what will happen to him but also of what he -wants- to do.

“No… no, no, stop it!” 

_No stopping now._

“Please!” There is a fist connecting with his midsection that has him gasping for air and he takes a wide swing, trying to fight off the other man but it misses by a good couple of inches. Pain builds into anger and with anger… with anger comes something else, an eerie calmness that is so familiar it makes his heart skip a beat. He can’t put a finger on it just yet but it feels as if a warm, broad hand rested over his shoulder, encouraging and backing him up and that’s what he needs, that’s what he needed all along, someone, something, to lean on, so there is not a single word of protest as he lets the feelings, his own and at the same not his own sweep him under. 

_Good boy. Let it all out…_

So focused on the attackers he is that the blood which has dribbled to the ground under his feet escapes his notice, however, Vaughn’s terrified scream has him whipping his head wildly and following the outstretched hand. The blood, it doesn’t look like it anymore, a pool of blackness in the dirt, and he’s fairly positive he hasn’t bled -that- much, swirls, rising in reverse droplets, forming, shaping, moulding into -something-. Something that has a twin set of ears, flat against its skull, a giant maw that splits the wrong way and the biggest claws on all four paws he has ever seen. The hulking beast, totalling at about maybe four to five feet when hunched, moves, the spikes along its back shifting and swaying as it stretches its powerful back and the tail tipped with something mace-like whips lazily from left to right. Time stands still, for him at least, the folks terrified of what they are seeing and frozen in place.  
He has an ally, yet another one the voice reminds him, and an advantage. As he straightens up, human hand coming to slick back his messed hair, caked with blood on the right side, his posture is completely different. One hip cocked and the opposite corner of his lips curled, Rhys raises the demon arm, fingers curling and flexing as he calls out a flicker of flame. 

_Oh it’s gonna be so great! We’re gonna scorch this freakin’ place to the ground, people will be dying left and right!_

He doesn’t realize he’s repeating those words out loud, the spark growing bigger, drawing from an outside power source as the connection linking him to the castle allows for the parasite to tap into Jack’s potential.

-II-

He reclines a little bit more comfortably on his armchair, a low tumbler from cut glass in one hand and a book on his lap. The castle is quiet, too quiet as he has grown used to the sound of the quiet pitter patter of a human heart he can pick up at most times, not with his ears but with another sense, something more attuned to tracking the living. Jack isn’t a patient man, but for once, he thinks, it will pay off and if he’s right, and he usually is, it’s time to collect the due payment. Simple folks are so easy to predict.

It’s not until much later, the Sorcerer dozing off in front of a slowly dying out fire that warms his flesh and bone, that a spike of restless energy surges through him. Anger and fear, not his but feeling like they are. Eyes falling shut he lets it take him someplace else and then, he’s in his castle but he’s also standing in the middle of some crappy village, surrounded and cornered by a couple of idiots. The vision is skewed, a little bit off-kilter as the feedback comes from only one eye but the sounds quickly grow clear, shoving the crackling of the fire to the back of his mind.  
There are voices, spiteful and mocking and they are trying to insult something that is -his- but also -him- and Jack doesn’t take kindly to either. So when the time is right, when there is enough hatred, filling one frail human body and quickly outgrowing it, he welcomes it into his own, the need to kill, to -repay- for the injustice done to him, and by now, Rhys’ bitterness and anguish become Jack’s. It’s personal, the Sorcerer no longer able to draw the line between his own memories and the faces he recognizes even though he shouldn’t, the betrayal stinging his pride.  
He doesn’t need to do much prodding, the kid already tumbling down the downward spiral of wrath leading to oblivion, but for the first time he can -feel- how it is to share one body with the parasitic being. Rhys may not fully realize it, not yet, but the thing is powerful and vicious, and as the first hellhound is raised, a manifestation of ill will, all Jack needs to do, is to choose who shall die first. The man goes down with a gurgling sound, throat ripped, freshly spilled blood quickly turning black, bubbling and boiling until it takes a form of another beast.  
The backward feedback brings the feeling of a dry throat and satisfaction, the need for a revenge only growing and it has him bursting with laughter.  
Oh what a good choice picking ‘vengeance’ was.  
He, they, set the nearest house on fire and the effect surpasses his expectations, bright flames shooting high and quickly spreading around. The spell leaves him gasping as he realizes the parasite reached to him through the bond and used him as much as he’s using Rhys right now. But it feels like such a small sacrifice to make for the delightful feeling making him lightheaded and borderline giddy. It’s not enough, a pack of beasts making quick work of the villagers and if they are not fast, the hounds will steal all the fun.  
A dash down the street helps them close the distance between the hunter and a man trying to run away from the carnage, sticking to the shadows and skirting around the corners. Their hand is around his throat in an instant, coming from the back and slamming him into the ground. There is a heart beating frantically against a rib cage and so, they help free the poor thing, claws breaking bones and pulling at tender flesh till the arteries give and snap, a splatter of warm dampness landing on their face.  
Ears pick up on some rustling in the nearest building, the healer’s cot, mixed memories supply, and eager feet take them there in long strides, door slammed open and denting the wall. The man is cowering in the far corner of the half-lit single chamber, a lone terrified cry as he spots the hunched figure in the doorway joining the shrieks coming from the outside before they are on him, bringing one knee to his crotch with enough force that the howl which follows is nearly deafening, something popping under the pressure.  
That’s the fucker that refused to help them before, when they were scared and hurting and it’s payback time, claws slashing across his chest before they reach the softer flesh, tearing into his stomach and leaving a deep gash, fingers and crooked nails catching on some of the slipper guts and as they pull their arm back, they also pull things -out-.  
However, they quickly lose interest in the horrified man, the manner in which he shakily tries to hold onto his spilled innards entertaining for just a couple of moments before something else catches their attention.  
A mirror. No. A piece of highly polished metal, nothing more, and the slightly warped reflexion knocks the breath out of their lungs, knees and bloodied hands scraping over the floor as they crawl closer. The purplish glow outlining the left side of their flushed face emanates from the gems embedded into their skin, a streak of crimson across the bridge of their nose and messy hair sticking in every direction. But it’s the eyes, open wide and nearly black, pupils almost completely swallowing the thin rings of brown and purple irises that steal the show. For a second they look golden but it disappears with a blink and they can see -everything- there. The hunger, the pure delight at the massacre they have caused and the barely contained excitement. A hand, clawed and trembling reaches towards the reflection, neither of them guiding it, and rests against the smooth surface. Another hitch of their breath breaks the silence in the castle’s room, drowned out by the pained gasps of a dying man in the rundown cot.

_Fuck..._

“..you are beautiful.”

Jack snaps out of it, back in his armchair, fingers empty and shards of a broken glass crunching under the heel of his boot as he shakily raises to his feet. He’s short of breath, trying to calm himself as he nervously keeps pacing around the room, thoughts frantically whirling in his head.  
Restlessness eventually takes him outside, full moon bathing the world in gentle light, and there is an indifferent quietness enveloping the imminent surroundings of the castle, broken by the distant, faint rustling of the forest stretching for miles beyond the walls, air cool and damp with the mist curling over the lazily rippling water of the moat. He takes a deep, soothing breath, hands folded at the small of his back and it takes every ounce of control he has, and Jack never had much of it in the first place, to keep himself from acting on his instincts. There are too many emotions clashing in his soul to choose a single track of action and follow through, an ember of that deep bloodlust still simmering in the pit of his stomach and his trembling hands, a memory of gut-wrenching awe even though he cannot say whose face he really saw in the mirror, and the after-scent of ozone, usually a prelude to an oncoming storm but this time a trace left in the air by the vile power he just got a taste of, it all fights for priority in his mind and sends him into another round of nervous pacing. He’d act if he knew what exactly his instincts were telling him but he’s left fumbling and fuming into the impassive night. 

-II-

His thoughts are his own again as he treads through the village, carefully stepping over mangled corpses, following the slaughter the hounds have left in their wake. He needs to trace Vaughn, probably lost somewhere amidst the destruction, smoke and ashes filling his nose but there is no hesitation to his steps, a deeply rooted certainty that his wishes still remained their commands. And he’s not disappointed as he finds his friend cornered by the pack but left unharmed. Claws skim over one of the beast’s heads and as on cue, they all melt back into the shadows, the magic animating them draining back into the arm.

“Vaughn?” His voice is raw and Rhys knows he must look like hell, drenched in blood that isn’t his but at least, he hopes, the eery glow has subsided and the insanity he saw in his own eyes is gone. The other man shrieks and tries to get away from him, clearly scared beyond his wits if he thought any harm would come to him from his friend. “Vaughn. Please. It’s fine now, they will not hurt us.”

“Rhys… what -are- you?” That has him puzzled, eyebrows pulled in confusion and he reaches towards the cowering man, changing his mind halfway through and swapping hands, human fingers soft and non-threatening.

“What do you mean? I…am your friend. Your -best- friend. You know me.” It feels like he’s talking to a startled animal.

“I don’t know -who- or -what- you think to be but you are no Rhys. I refuse to accept that. Rhys… my friend… he would never do that!” Do what? There is even more confusion showing on his face and the helpful hand gets slapped away. 

“That? I did it to protect us. To protect you. Come, come with me to the castle, the Sorcerer will take you in. He’s… he’s good. He will take care of you like he took care of me. Please.”

“You are crazy! The Sorcerer is not a good man… whatever he did to you… he took away my friend… my brother.” It feels like a punch to the guts, worst he has ever experienced but he still tries to get through to the other man, taking another step closer and trying to take a hold of Vaughn’s hand.

“Please. You still are my brother.”

“No! Get away from me. I don’t want my only living relative to be a -monster-!” Ah. So he’s not dealing here with a startled animal, despite so very human tears now streaming down the familiar face, Rhys understands that before him stands a rabid animal and his nostrils flare, expression turning grim and clawed fingers curling.

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me. Not you, of all people. Not you.” But he does just that, darting past him and down the road and Rhys can’t bring himself to do anything but stare at the slowly disappearing figure, overwhelming sadness and exhaustion taking over him. 

All that’s left is a tedious trek back to the castle, back to Jack and that single thing is the only reason he manages to put one foot in front of the other, trusty Brick devoured either by flames or hellhounds.

-II-

The morning that comes is cold, fog filled and depressing, and Rhys feels like it’s freezing him to the bone but he’s numb enough that he barely registers it, the same fog having seemingly creeped through the gash on his head and inside of it to wrap around his mind.

Only once he finds himself inside of the familiar walls, shoulders slumped and watching the Sorcerer quickly approach him in carefully measured strides does he finally feel at home. There is still a degree of uncertainty clinging to his consciousness and he fears Jack too will reject him, no solid grounds for it but it still makes him curl inwards as the man comes to a halt before him. Silence stretches and he desperately wants to say something but his brain is completely blank, the events of the previous night completely shut off. However, a hand coming to rest over his shoulder breaks the spell numbness has over him and the next thing Rhys knows is that he’s on his knees, crumbling down and with all the emotions he was trying to hold back spilling through his eyes, tears leaving lighter patches of skin in their wake, grime and dirt washed away. He wants, no, he needs to find comfort in the familiar safety that came with receiving attention from the powerful man, positive or negative, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care either whether Jack will berate him for being weak and crying or offer some sort of solace as long as he won’t be indifferent, one clawed hand coming to fist into the flap of his coat.  
Finally, finally there are hands on his face, pulling him up so he can stare through tear-stricken eyes into the void of the Sorcerer’s eyes and Rhys feels like he’s drowning but instead of trying to swim up and catch a breath, he holds it and dives deeper. Jack doesn’t say a single word, scooping him into his arms and the world turns upside down when he ends up slung over a broad shoulder. They head for the bath chamber and the Sorcerer does the ‘wavy handy dandy’ thing, Rhys too tired to give a shit else he would be having the time of his life, before dropping him onto the floor and making quick work of the dirtied clothes.

The first semi-conscious thought begins lazily swirling about his mind when he’s already submerged in the scalding hot water, hands working away at the dried up blood in his hair and a sigh followed by some squirming has the Sorcerer pause in his task. 

“What is it, sugar?” He sounds tense, as if waiting for another bout of hysterics but Rhys hasn’t got any left in him anymore.

“I uh… I feel bad.” There is a shove to the back of his head, a prompt to dunk his head in the water and once he resurfaces again, sluggishly shaking the water dripping over his face, Jack picks up the topic.

“What for silly thing? Think you’ve done something wrong? They would have killed you and don’t tell me you think they didn’t deserve that. Or is it about that foolish man you used to call your friend?” The rant continues for a little while, quickly turning from reassuring to something leaning more into the praise departament. He’s stiffly reminded of how much pleasure he, both of them, delivered from the slaughter and that sends a shiver down his spine, not necessarily a bad one either, but Rhys patiently waits for the other man to be done talking, idly chewing on his lower lip before he speaks again.

“No… I… I feel bad for getting grime all over your clothes.” He has to illustrate his point with a finger duly poking at the Sorcerer’s chest but once the confusion wanes, there are two hands pressing either either side of his face again and tilting his head back so two intense eyes can bore into his.

“You stupid…” At first it’s hard to decipher the look on his face, pinched mostly but also there is something the boy cannot figure out, try as he might, churning in those golden eyes “... blissful... -idiot-.” And then Jack’s face melts into the most brilliant smile Rhys has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bless @starfruithoney for putting up with my hectic working, i dont do 'moderation' honestly


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i call it ~a reverse handjob~

By the time Rhys’ skin turns red, fingertips wrinkled and hair all flopped down and soaking wet from the deep scrub he has just received, the boy is nothing more but a boneless weight slumped over the edge of the tub. Even a good tug to his ear can’t make him get out of the warm water and the Sorcerer is left grumbling and fishing a dead weight out of it, chuckling at the shiver running down the lean body and scrunching his eyebrows when two still damp arms come to wrap around his neck. Sure, his apprentice is clingy on a good day, always skirting at the edges of Jack’s peripheral vision and driving him mad with all the unnecessary touchy-feely stuff. But the exhaustion, both physical and emotional, has him completely throw any inhibitions to the wind, draped over the other man and getting him wet. 

Jack, much to his apprentice's displeasure, refuses to carry him around more than necessary and he ends up needing to drag the boy, one arm around his waist to support two fumbling feet. 

“Jack?” A little hum comes as a form of encouragement to keep talking. “Can you stay with me for the night?” All in all it’s good that the boy keeps his eyes fixed on the floor as the smirk creeping on the Sorcerer’s lips is something he’d rather keep to himself. Regardless, he makes sure to keep the edge out of his voice.

“It’s morning sugar. Anyway, fine, but how about this, I’ll let you sleep it off in my room as I work, you are a big boy, no need to be babysat, sounds good?” 

He has all the intention of dropping the boy onto the rug in front of the fireplace but before he gets the chance, Rhys is already lurching for -his- goddamn bed and splaying himself on it as if he belonged there. Jack supposes there is no harm in letting him stay there, besides, he’d rather not incur the wrath of one hissy apprentice being dragged from under a comforter currently getting pulled over a mop of still damp hair and chased with a happy sigh. 

It doesn’t take long for the boy to be out like a light, softly snoring and drooling all over Jack’s nice pillows. With a little nudge along the bond he double checks how far into the dreamzone his servant is, a gentle spell of an old lullaby to be sure it will stay that way tossed on top of it before the Sorcerer seats himself at the edge of the bed. Tugging the sheets to the side, he rolls the sleeping kid onto his back and with a thoughtful hum lets his eyes roam over his possession.

Rhys is unlike any apprentice he has ever taken, a good majority, if not all of them, came from the upper class, spoiled brats sent by their obnoxiously rich parents, either to gain advantage over their enemies or to further their own goals. Back in the day Jack took them in for the money, teaching a couple of useless spells to show off and kicking out when their demands grew annoying. Sometimes he’d kill one or two and then profusely, if hardly sincerely, apologize to the not-so-concerned family, chalking it up to an accident or an overzealous witchhunter. But Rhys is different, a blank canvas, untouched by snobbery and the machinations of the elite, although, if his quickly growing love for power and luxury is anything to go by, he’d fit right in. Jack’s fingers trace over the designs he has etched into the previously unmarred skin, ink briefly lighting up under his touch. He likes how the boy lets the Sorcerer shape him into whatever he sees fit, his world, now with that stupid homesickness out of the way, has been narrowed down to Jack and nothing else. It’s oddly endearing but also doing wonders for his already overly inflated ego and although he has never been much of a dog person, more of a fire-breathing dragon kind, this eager pup, constantly hot at his heels, quickly worms his way into Jack’s everyday life. There seems to be a lovely dream playing behind closed eyelids if the loopy smile spreading on bitten lips is anything to go by, accidentally or maybe not so accidentally, powered all the more by fingertips gliding over smooth skin. Molding and shaping him into what Jack needs him to be feels familiar, he has once attempted that but failed, the memory making the corner of his mouth twitch with displeasure, but right here, he sees a second chance and he’s not going to fuck it up this time. The Sorcerer will be more careful, meddling with powers that are beyond his control but if previous experience taught him anything, it’s patience and to not let feelings into the deadly mix. Idly skimming his fingers over the slowly rising and falling bare chest, he moves to the other arm, the one closer to him, taking it by the wrist and settling down atop his lap, a curious spark of his magic sent as a ‘hello’. At the same time, another ‘ _hello_ ’ is shot, riding his thoughts, down the spiral staircase, past the heavy door and delving into the pits of the dungeons buried beneath the castle. The reply comes a little while later, catching him halfway through grazing his fingers along the curve of one of the spikes and revealing into the strange sensation of the parasite nearly purring at the attention.

_What do you need?_

_Do I have to need anything to talk do you?_

_That usually is the case._

Jack smirks at the familiar scoff he can almost see, colouring the words darting along the edges of his mind. His thumbs move, Rhys’ hand now turned palm up as he begins rubbing gentle circles into the flesh just above the wrist.

“You like that babydoll?” The claws give the tiniest of twitches in response.

_Just checking in on you._

_You sound pleased._

_I am. Found a new toy._

He needs to scoot a little bit higher up the bed, one leg tucked underneath and the other swinging over the edge so when he brings his plaything higher, lips pressing over the rough skin, he doesn’t end up twisting the boy’s arm from the socket.

_You will end up wrecking it sooner or later. As you always do._

_Probably._

_Well. Have fun while it lasts._

Oh he will. But the words sound like a farewell and that’s what they are, the pressure at the back of his mind lifting and disappearing without a trace, it’s owner most likely moving to go about their day.

Attention no longer divided, he can center it back on the task at hand, a brief look spared to check in on the sleeping boy before he returns to leisurely brushing his lips over the knuckles, the feeling not only pleasant against his skin but also leaving a tingling sensation at the edges of his own powers, burning and boiling inside. Tongue darts out to drag over the protruding bones and curl between fingers, probing at the thinner skin webbed between them. A subtle at first but rapidly increasing scent of ozone hits him in the guts and sends a shiver of anticipation down the Sorcerer’s spine, the sheer power, hungry and suddenly completely awake, bubbling beneath the hardened skin makes his vision spin for a second. It aches for something more than the tiny flicker of the life-force Rhys can offer and as the arm twists in his grasp, claws come to rest over his face, two against each of his cheekbones and the thumb digging under his jaw, threatening to break the skin any moment now. Jack knows it’s risky, he has felt it draw from him before, the contact dampened due to the distance, the man safely hid in his castle and able to break the connection any minute. This time it’s different, direct and personal but he has managed to subdue the creature once, driven by sheer bloodlust as it was then, and now, they have a more of a working relation he hopes, tilting his head back instead of tugging the hand down and the claws drag over his skin, leaving shallow gashes. Lips parted, he lets the index and middle finger slip in, irregular, rough skin against a soft and pliant tongue. That’s when the thumb decides to press harder, lodged between his windpipe and a jutting tendon, the sharp tip of a claw breaking the skin directly over his pulse point and the sensation has him choking a moan around the fingers in his mouth. The vile energy gingerly prods at his mind, curious and moving against the flow of the blood currently trickling down the side of his neck and soaking into the collar. It’s untamed and in a way scary, Jack genuinely happy that he’s dealing with just a sliver of it, but it also has all of his defenses on high alert, fighting of the intrusion when it tries to overstep the boundaries. He’s here to have a good time and maybe a small tousle, not to get himself accidentally possessed. But the fight and the force angrily crashing into the walls he has built around his mind ultimately do it for him, another shuffle, his fingers curling a little bit tighter around the wrist to keep it in place, and he’s laying down, vertically across the bed, his head just next to Rhys’. A deeper inhale brings the boy’s scent to the fore, pushing through the omnipresent smell of ozone and Jack’s own bathing products. He can pick up on the slow, steady thump of his heart, audible between the louder pants spilling from his own lips and the rustling of clothing as he wiggles his trousers down. The vile energy seems to be curious of his odd behaviour but doesn’t question it in any way when his own hand comes to rest over it, making the two fingers push a little deeper into his mouth and then withdraw. Even as the pressure of the Sorcerer’s hand lifts, the languid, back and forth stroke is continued, Jack’s tongue moving over the rough pads and between the fingers, the contrast of smooth sharp claws deeply pleasing and the parasite is seemingly content enough with the little leeway he gives it into his mind that it doesn’t mind satisfying his desires. A little mental stimulation and getting fingerfucked is absolutely as nice as it sounds but he needs a bit more, one hand sneaking down the length of his body, briefly teasing along the jut of his hipbone after shoving the sash to a side. By now he’s more than -just- hard, fingers skimming over the flushed flesh coming away sticky and even this fleeting touch has his eyes rolling back, another moan slipping around the digits moving about in the damp heat of his mouth. There is just so much going on, the sliver of lucidity designated to keeping Rhys lulled into deep sleep wavers, the boy producing a deep, dozy hum in the back of his throat and it has Jack frantically scramble for some semblance of control. However, the parasite easily picks up on that snippet of panic, bursting brighter and stronger and greedily trying to shove itself deeper into his mind, draining away the weakly chucked flare of his defenses as it also shoves the fingers further into his mouth, grip tightening and keeping his jaw locked in place. He can feel the threatening pressure against his windpipe as well as the drool spilling from forcefully opened mouth and running down his chin. The slight commotion has Rhys turning his head in his sleep, now facing the other man and a peaceful breath ghosts over one flushed cheek. All those mixed sensations make him fist his fingers around the hard flesh, giving a few strokes in quick succession that send his mind reeling and the force attempting to overtake him bouncing back. His throat and the back of his tongue feel violated, sharp claws easily breaking the skin and if they decide to push a little harder there is a very real possibility of them meeting the tip of the thumb still digging into his throat and drawing blood. He wouldn’t have half minded given how far he’s gone, fist furiously pumping and moans turning into gurgles as he chokes on his own spit and blood. But the fun is over way too soon, body arching off the bed, the tips of his horns shredding the pillow and a muffled groan, way too loud for his liking ringing in the quiet room. Thankfully it doesn’t manage to wake the sleeping boy up, else he would be having a really hard time piecing together what has happened at the sight of the Sorcerer laying next to him, chest heaving and gasping for air, his clothes dirtied at the front, pants around his thighs and gashes left by the claws as he forcefully ripped the clawed hand away littering his face and throat. 

“That was fun babydoll. Gotta do it again.” Voice hoarse and barely making it through his abused throat, he gives a few lazy pats to the hand now resting over the sleepyhead’s chest next to him, apparently sulking at being treated like that. A few moments to get his brain to work again later, Jack pulls the covers over his apprentice, tucking him in and pressing a fleeting kiss to his forehead.

-II-

Rhys dreams, of food at first, mostly because he was way too tired to ask Jack to feed him before passing out but soon his his dreams turn restless. And Rhys dreams of hot lips moving over his body and the irresistible lure of power, the combination of both stirring something inside of him. There are thoughts that aren’t his, twisting beneath his skin and warping his dreams, heavy and sticky, clinging to his consciousness, but a gentle hum that has settled in the left side of his body keeps the sensations coming from the right nothing more but quickly forgotten flicker that could have been something more. That lust he cannot place disappears with time, a quick breather before everything becomes a real nightmare. He dreams of home and how safe his friend made him feel, the sting of betrayal making his guts churn with anger. In his dream he chases after the other man, catching up to him with practiced ease, but when he wants to gently grab him by the wrist, to stop and convince that he’s -right-, and promise that everything will be okay, that they will together go back home, to the castle and make things work again, his words turn to a scream as he watches his hand come away bloodied. Vaughn is on his knees, wrist shattered and clutched in the other hand, eyes so spiteful they make Rhys stumble back. That’s not the end of it however, both of his arms shooting up, fingers digging first into clothes and then tearing through the skin and it feels like he’s looking at it but not doing it, his own horrified cries the only sound as they rip the completely mute man into shreds, piece after piece disassembling the body of his friend. Rhys sobs his name but the heart he’s holding in his grasp is still and he must have called out loud, a couple of times probably because there is a hand at his shoulder, shaking him awake and dragging back into the waking world.

“Kid!” The face hovering over him is pulled into an unreadable expression, eyebrows knit together but it instantly serves to sooth his worry, dreams fading away.

“Jack.” He sounds dopey, even to his own ears, lazy smile tugging the corners of his lips up and his eyes must be still sleepy and half-lidded given how blurry his vision still is, the only sharp thing among the swimming blotches of various colours, are two golden irises staring down at him. 

“Now that’s better. The only name I like hearing called in my bed is my own.” Rhys misses the implication but still nods happily taking the most important part of what was said. And that is, praise. So just to get that little bit more of his fix, he drawls out the word again. “Easy there…” Jack laughs and that makes the boy nearly giddy, repeating the name over and over with various degrees of pitch. He ends up with a hand pressed over his lips, effectively shushing him, and the Sorcerer’s face a few inches above his own. In case he has accidentally crossed the line, Rhys pulls his eyebrows together, eyes turning apologetic since he can’t say anything and that has the other man scrunching his nose and shaking his head. Jack doesn’t seem mad however, quickly pulling back after that and watching with amusement as his apprentice rolls over onto his front, marveling at how the softer, silky sheets the Sorcerer used felt against his bare skin. There are more feathers fluttering about the bed than he’d expect, and they are either white or muted brown, unlike the ones adorning Jack’s shoulders and he quickly spots a sad, torn pillow, most of it’s content now strewn all around him.

“Did I… do it?” Rhys shoots a grumpy stare at his right hand, the destruction caused either by the sharp claws or spikes.

“Mhm. Gonna have you clean this mess up later and find a goose so you can pluck it and sew a new one.” A thoughtful hum follows and just to add insult to the injury, the Sorcerer continues. “And then, if you do a satisfactory job I’ll tell you how we’ll go about punishing you.” There is a very theatrical huff and he can’t say if the man is serious or not. “I let you into my bed once and look what you’ve done. Bad boy.” Whether he’s joking or not, the edge in his voice lets Rhys know that it’s high time to get going, possibly to somewhere far from the fuming man and that maybe, it wouldn’t be wise to question the stain at the front of Jack’s vest.

-II-

Rhys never brings up the events that had transpired in the village but Jack vows to track that kid’s best friend and drag him to the castle one day. If only to have the boy torture and kill him so he can finally move the fuck on. However, that has also shown that it’s time to move forward with the teaching and that’s why currently, he has his apprentice sat in front of him in the study room, watching intently as he paces back and forth.

“You will need to defend yourself, I can’t be wasting my precious time watching over you all the time.” Jack folds his hands at the small of his back, finally coming to a halt and straightening to stare down the length of his nose. “A Sorcerer’s weapon can be many things, and just as any weapon it can be used against us if you ever let go of the control you have over it. We’ll start with something simple.” Digging through his pockets, he brings up a strip of red ribbon, about two inches wide and as long as his arm.

“That? That is so…” Rhys seems to be looking for the right word, his vocabulary having recently expanded thanks to the amount of books he tended to devour daily. “...non imposing. Couldn’t I have a sword instead?” Aaand there’s his trademark pout, lower lip jutting and arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you dumb kid? You go about lugging a sword with you and the first thing they do when you walk into any larger city, is arrest you.”

“But knights…”

“But knights…” Jack mimics him with annoyance “...knights are paid by the king, and have permits. Snap out of it, life ain’t a bedtime story.” That however still doesn’t manage to convince the stubborn boy as he keeps nagging about at least having a dagger.

“What do -you- even use? Haven’t seen you carry any weapons oh mighty Handsome Sorcerer.” Jack’s nostrils flare at the obvious mocking and he has a half mind to just turn this mouthy little shit into a mouse again.

“Why would I need to do so in my own castle?” He usually keeps his pocketwatch and the gauntlet on him but rarely bothers strapping in the full gear. Between the undead army and the dragons there’s hardly anything that could get past the walls and he feels safe enough in his own company, thank you very much.

“Well, in case someone did THIS!” There is a small fireball whizzing just past his head, his apprentice on his feet and stalking closer as he summons another, pathetically small flicker of flame into the palm of his hand. Jack sighs, lazily catching the next projectile into his gloved hand and extinguishing it in his fist. Alright, don’t say the kid didn’t have it coming, silly thing clearly having forgotten his manners. Time to show off.

The room turns darker, shadows that are leaning into something more corporeal curling along the corners and creeping up the walls as the Sorcerer extends his right arm, calling out his weapon of choice, usually strapped to his thigh when he ventured outside but currently stuffed on one of the shelves, carelessly squeezed between ‘Poisonous frogs and toads A-Z’ and ‘The dancing skag maiden’. An old and weathered book lurches across the room, stilling just above the open palm of his hand, spread open as a gust of wind that shouldn’t be there makes a couple of pages turn, his coat tugged with the breeze and a couple of stray feathers twirl lazily. The mean aura has Rhys backed against one of the walls, colours completely draining from his face as the Sorcerer starts slowly crossing the distance, one hand dancing briefly over the faded pages and when it pulls back, there is a mini-tornado of raging flames at the tip of his finger. 

“I reckon I have nothing to worry about, hmm?” By the time he reaches the boy, now completely plastered to the adjacent wall, he lets the fire curl in on itself and simply dissipate into the thin air. He gets a vigorous shake of one dumb head, the Sorcerer sticking closer for a little while longer, curiously peeking into mismatched eyes. What he sees there is a healthy dose of fear but also equal amounts of awe and the kid is positively star-struck which brings a pleased smirk to Jack’s lips. “Mighty fine then. Let’s get to work, shall we?” And with that the book snaps back to its place as he claps his hands and the candles begin burning brighter again. 

Rhys is absolutely unabashed at his earlier display, all the more eager to follow Jack’s every whim after having witnessed the Sorcerer’s true power and he, as well as his unwitting passenger, must have sensed the true extent of it. Creating and binding a weapon is mostly a tedious process and it’s late evening, sun slowly setting before they are nearly ready, one last element needed.

“It’s blood magic, sugar, -of course- I need your blood.” The Sorcerer is currently holding a thin skinning knife in his hand and impatiently motioning for the boy to take it. Which he does, hesitantly resting the blade against the inside of his forearm but before he can act, the other man is already scoffing at him and snatching it from his grasp. “Hell and damnation. Stupid boy do you want to die? I did not teach how to call a flame for you to just carelessly toss it around. First rule of blood magic, cauterize your tools.” There is a brief flash of fire swallowing the knife following his words, fleeting enough that the metal turns hot but not scalding. “Now.”

This time Rhys is allowed to follow through, dragging it over the skin and watching heavy drops of crimson drip onto the strip of material, nearly identical in colour. He ends up needing to wrap clean cloth over the wound, Jack refusing to let him use some of that salve to quickly close the open gash, explaining that scarring was part of the spell. 

“There you go boy. Looking good.” The Sorcerer finishes his handiwork with the ribbon wrapped around his apprentice’s throat, fairly loosely, going around it once and then tucking the ends under and over the band to secure it in place.

“Thank you.” Fingers skim over the soft material with a dose of uncertainty but Jack supposes the kid will get used to it. “So… does that…” Rhys points to the bandages on his forearm “...mean we’re even on that ‘blood spilling’ thing?” Ah, that one time his rabid parasite tried to strangle the life out of the Sorcerer. Well, Jack has mostly forgotten about this but it seems it has been nagging the boy quite badly. No reason to change that.

“Silly thing. Of course not. We would have to make -that- fun in order for it to count.” And with a laugh, and he makes sure to make it sound that little bit more sinister than usual, Jack pats the boy on the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u prolly kno who that voice was, dont'cha eh?  
> (still greatest thank you to my beta @starfruithoney)


	6. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well it doesn't follow the usual format and it basically is a small collection of little moments that i wanted to chuck in here before posting the last chapter i guess.

An unsettling feeling of someone watching him drags Rhys back into reality out of whatever restless dreams have been plaguing him, nightmares instantly erased from his memory as he spots two intent eyes staring at him. They are way too close for comfort and as he scrambles back, up his bed all tangled up into a comforter, the rest of his quiet observer comes into focus. Long hair, brushed over to one side and cascading the side of a round face, lips with downturned corners and a slim body which… fades into a bloated gaster, supported by four sets of jointed legs.

“Who...what -are- you.” The horror on his face doesn’t seem to phase the creature as she scuttles back a little bit, the moonshine pouring through the open window highlighting the shape of the patchwork body.

“Angel. And you are Jack’s new plaything, aren’t you?” Unlike the other monsters dwelling the castle, she’s fully sentient, human-like despite strange appearance.

“Rhys. An apprentice. Uh, hello to you too?” 

“Call it however you like. Still a plaything. Hi anyway.” The bed dips under the heavy weight, the arachnid settling herself down and idly playing with a stretch of web, curled between her fingers and reminding him of an old game kid’s around the village used to play. She, Angel, doesn’t seem to mean him any harm and so, crossing his legs and sitting slightly up, he moves closer, fingers deftly picking up the threads.

“Skag’s cradle. I recognize it.” That seems to immediately lift her mood, gentle, if still tinged with underlying sadness, smile tugging her lips up. Both of her pinkies dive under the web, hooking it and pulling away, a twist of her wrists given and it’s his turn.

“You should come by the dungeons sometimes, it gets lonely, even more so lately, since most adventurers have learned to avoid the caves linking the South Ridge to the castle.” Rhys grasps the crisscrossed strings and loops them over the top thread.

“That’s where you live?” His motion is repeated, web positioned horizontally this time.

“That’s where Jack keeps his failed experiments.” She sounds bitter and instead of continuing the game, the strings get caught around the claws of his hand and she tugs it closer, carefully inspecting it. “Looks like I’ll be needing to make some space for you down there.” There is no maliciousness to her voice, just resignation.

“No… no it’s not…” But before Rhys gets the chance to protest further, a quickly approaching clip of boots against the stone startles the both of them, the door to his room slammed open.

“Angel!” The Sorcerer sounds pissed and that makes his apprentice try to slink under his comforter even further, the anger hopefully not directed at him but he suspects that he’ll be feeling the repercussions of it come morning regardless. “What did I tell you about coming up here?”

“Bored.” His outright fury does nothing to break her composure, however, no one dares to disobey the master of the castle, even eight-legged monsters that are probably twice his height as she gets up with a sigh and one longful stare spared Rhys’ way. “Fine.”

“That’s my girl!” The apprentice peaks over the fabric behind which he’s currently trying hide and his eyes grow absolutely wide at the sight of the Handsome Sorcerer tapping his finger over his cheek and tilting his face as the spiderant moves closer, legs tipped in little hooks tapping gently against the stone. “Give your Father a good night kiss and get going baby girl.”

Father.

Rhys needs to repeat the word under his breath, brain going completely haywire as he watches Jack’s… daughter brush past him with total indifference. 

There is a moment of silence between them the sound of her scuttling disappearing deeper into the castle, Rhys trying to gather his courage before he finally crawls out of the bed, quickly crossing the distance between him and the still clearly annoyed Sorcerer. Mismatched hands come to rest over fluffed up shoulders, feathers lightly tickling the insides of his palms.

“You… you really are lonely?” There is concern to his voice, eyebrows pulled together and teeth coming down to gently worry at his lower lip.

Jack on the other hand gives him the most perplexed look up to date, eyes squinted and lips puckered, clearly not having expecting the reaction to the bombshell Angel has just dropped to be… this. Whatever it is that Rhys is doing. But the apprentice thinks he’s got it, all nicely figured out and pieced together.

“Just what are you implying, dumb thing?”

“I get it, I get it, I’ve heard people talking before, the stories of lone shepherds, stranded for long months with just their flock for company and going stir crazy from the loneliness.” He’s giving the other man soothing rubs over his tense shoulders, completely misunderstanding the reaction he’s getting and ending up pulling the Sorcerer into a much unwanted hug. “Don’t worry, you’ve got me now, -I- will keep you company.” The accidental double meaning escapes Rhys’ attention but certainly serves to further Jack’s confusion.

“What?”

The boy leans closer, chin resting over the other man’s shoulder as he noses closer to his ear, his voice dropping into a whisper as he shares the scandalous secret getting passed around from one village to another.

“They fuck the sheep.”

Jack pops a vein and Rhys ends up with a persistent bruise on the side of his jaw and a nearly torn off ear.

-II-

He’s burning through the library like wildfire, and it’s only a matter of time until he stumbles across that one book he probably shouldn’t have touched.

But here he is, having touched it and now left miserable and in return -touching- himself, sat atop one of the battlements of the wall surrounding the castle, legs swung over the edge and the cursed book on his lap. It consists mostly of extremely detailed pictures and even more in-depth descriptions of how two people, or occasionally more, could spend their extra time alone. Some things leave him deeply shocked, some more than a little bit concerned and most of them making the occasional tryst behind the barn with the neighbour’s daughter seem like a child’s play. Rhys sighs wistfully, letting his head drop back and thoughts swim idly, anything to take his mind off of the burned down village. There is pressure of the oncoming release curling in the pit of his stomach and building in his head, particularly focused around the left side but he pays it no mind, groaning softly and curling inwards as the sensation washes over him. He slumps down, head cleared and fingers lazily tracing over one of the drawings before darting to run over the narrow, tightly packed handwriting he knows so well, additional notes added to the graphic description and the very reason he ended up with a hand down the front of his pants. So yeah, seems like he not only stumbled across a guide to love making but also one the Sorcerer seemed to value enough to add his own remarks to the content.

It feels like just thinking about the man can make him pop out, seemingly out of nowhere, appearing from thin air and cackling as he did. The sound which escapes Rhys’ lips is definitely not as high pitched as Jack would describe it later but it doesn’t change the fact that the apprentice, in his panic, does the only sensible thing and just, chucks the book with all the force he can muster into the moat lazily drifting a couple dozens of feet below.

-II-

That book, he actually -liked- that one. And he would probably already get to talking his apprentice’s ear off for destroying it if he didn’t want to keep his spying a secret. On the other hand, no way is he going to pass on an opportunity to torment this ungrateful, literature insensitive shit a little bit. 

“What are you up to little one” He makes sure to seep that extra layer of his trademark flirtatious venom into his voice as he casually plops himself beside the sitting boy.

“Thinking I guess … and stuff.”

“Sure. And what are you thinking about so hard.” Jack lets the innuendo hang in the air, words drawled out, curious as to how his apprentice will talk his way out of this one.

“Jack… what are you going to do with me after those ten years pass?” A good save, he has to give it to him. 

“Dunno, what do you want me to do with you?” That’s a lie, he’s not relinquishing his grasp on his toy anytime soon and ten years sounds like such a short time to get his fill of playing with it. Besides, he has plans for the Warrior and despite his frantic search for solution, the Sorcerer isn’t anywhere close to finding a solution on how to extract the parasite and make it his servant without keeping his apprentice around.

“I don’t want to go. Don’t really have where to anyway.”

“You are still young, plenty of time to figure it out.” The decision might have been made the second blood sank into the parchment sealing the deal they have struck at the beginning of spring but Jack wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t find pleasure in making the boy beg for an opportunity to outstay his contract. “Since we’re at it, how old are you child?”

That has Rhys in a pinch, spells and letters come to him easily, numbers … not so much and Jack watches with morbid fascination at the strange ritual, his apprentice first wiggling his fingers, all ten of them, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, then apparently wiggle his toes if the intent stare he’s currently shooting at the tips of his boots is anything to go by, touch his left ear touch his right ear and finally announce the verdict with the pride usually heard from six years old telling you they are six and two months and exactly eight days old. “Twenty three come this winter. Or should be assuming I and V… well assuming I am about the same age as the other kids of that litter were.” 

“You are a big boy, ain’tcha?” Even Rhys isn’t dense enough to ignore the underlying mockery, a tongue stuck at the Sorcerer a dead proof of a wounded pride.

“How old are -you-?”

“A couple of human lifespans, old enough to go a little grey…” He points to the off-colour horn, the other pitch black and just the way he likes it. It irks him but on the other hand, there is no denying that it adds to his handsome, silver-fox presentation.

“Meaning old as balls.” Or maybe not if all he’s getting instead of appreciation is some brat insulting him. Well, the brat has a fast approaching appointment with the murky waters of the moat and that manages to slightly lift Jack’s spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's what i get for being over-eager and first writing the next chapter and then finding myself with very little content to put in here oh well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaand that about wraps it up for now.  
> I have a couple of still unused concepts and we need to find out how Vaughn will take to the invitation so eee yeaaahh will come to it back in the future. after a nap maybe. like a year long nap.  
> but it felt like a good point to break it off so have some dooddly diggly dangly thighfuckingly doo

Summer comes, bringing one heatwave after another, the water in the moat dropping to a half of its level, but the castle stands strong, blissful chill settled within its walls despite all of the windows being open wide to let the warm breeze and the sound of buzzing bugs and cicadas in.  
Days slowly trickle by, just like a dribble of sweat running down his back, another swing taken, followed with a controlled burst of flames swallowing a dummy and quickly ebbing away as he calls his powers back. Rhys takes a long, satisfied breath, air carrying heavy traces of pine, laced with heat and hay, an underlying scent of ozone twinging between them. Rolling his shoulders painted with tan lines and recently taking on a sharper cut, he lets the ribbon he’s been practicing with slowly float down to his hand, fingers curling over the soft materials, and with eyes shielded, his gaze moves towards the sky. A single shape circles overhead before diving down towards the figure standing in the open window of one of the towers, its intent gaze finally moving away from the boy and towards the messenger. 

The Sorcerer’s spy has returned, bringing good news apparently as Jack seems to be brimming with extra ill-meaning delight, crossing the courtyard in hasty strides. Which usually translated into someone dying.

“Strap in sugar, time for the effects of your training to be put to a test!”

-II-

The slowly setting sun is bathing the world in warm hues, the landscape softened by the lazily rising fog, crawling low over the ground and creeping closer from the nearby marshes. Rhys is burning down the road fast, a purpose to his step and shoulders squared, his upper body enveloped into a slightly tattered shawl, originally bright red, dulled and muted with time, with a hood pulled over his head to hide the scarring on the side of his head and the mismatched eyes. Jack has promised to teach him how to alter his appearance one day but he also said that this trick will not work against the people he’ll go against today. He can feel golden eyes tracking his progress, the Sorcerer becoming one with the fog back at the castle’s gate and quite literally melting into the shadows, a whispered promise to stay at Rhys’ side and a gentle lick of mist over the back of his hand, leaving condensation clinging to his skin like a memory of a lover’s kiss.  
He breaks into a light jog, having spotted an approaching party, their voices loud and boastful echoes amongst the eery quietness of the track.  
Witch hunters, Jack said, young rookies and their mentor, trekking through the cursed grounds of his home, in search of a challenge, too young and inexperienced to come knocking at the Sorcerer’s doors but there is plenty other monsters lurking in the shadows to hunt, one of the lesser creatures of the realm approaching them in quick strides. 

“Help me!” He skids to a halt just before them, panting and resting his gloved hands against his thighs. “Please. Noble knights, there is -something-... a beast... I… I think it’s killed the rest of my family! Please… help me.” It’s easy to make his voice sound hysterical but Rhys has to wonder if he’s not overdoing it a little bit. Whether that’s true or not, they easily fall for his act, circling the boy and taking out their weapons, long swords and daggers, enchanted with spiteful and revolting blessings, making something in his guts churn with nausea. But their attention isn’t on the unfortunate boy, his repulsed expression most probably attributed to whatever has scared him, and they fan out into the edges of the forest towering on either side of the road.

Jack gave a strict order not to kill them outright, ‘Get to know your enemy. Learn their weaknesses.’ that’s what he said. And so his apprentice will dutifully follow, pretending to be cowering in fear and chuckling on the inside.

The oldest of the group, their mentor Rhys assumes, eventually calls them back, deciding that the imminent danger must have passed and they go about setting up a camp, letting the deeply-shocked boy quietly sit by. They are loud and cocky and annoying and he has a hard time keeping up the pretenses of a dumb village boy, staring with wide eyes as they brag amongst themselves about their undoubtedly heroic and completely made up adventures, replying with half-mumbled words when they inquire about what has happened. What piques his interest is the talk about the new addition to the Knight Commander’s garrison, an only survivor of a recent massacre that has decimated a small village not far from here, a young man who’s said to have lost everything, training day by day with grim determination. That’s what eventually gives his disguise up, ruse over the second a memory of his need for vengeance swirls inside of him, calling the Sorcerer closer and lighting up the gems at his temple, left eye taking on a dimmed purplish glow. Rhys doesn’t notice at first, too busy trying to figure out how to get rid of the dried up pieces of meat they have shared with him, a disgusting leathery thing he wouldn’t even bother trying to chew on these days, when fingers close around his wrist, holding his hand in a vice like grip.

“You… viper. The Sorcerer’s boy. Lads! Get your weapons ready!” Well, at least he doesn’t need to deal with trying to hide this disgusting scrap food anymore, chucking it at the man holding him down instead, a second taken earlier to weave it with magic and as it hits the knight in the face, it shatters into a suffocating dust, sharp particles damaging the skin and eyes as they burst into a cloud. He bounces back onto his feet, hood sliding from his head to reveal Rhys’ true face, lips curled in a nasty smirk. Unlike the last time, Jack is nothing more but a dull throb at the back of his mind, letting him and the parasite take care of the situation, watching from the backlines. 

The first brave fool dashes forward and Rhys decides that he will die last, sidestepping and watching the blade drop a couple of inches away from his shoulder, the swing strong enough that it would have undoubtedly cleaved it in half. Their actions easily reflect their boastful words, no subtlety or finesse and it makes contempt for their ilk grow inside of the apprentice  


It’s easier to fight against a slightly larger group than against two or three desperate people and as they move to circle him, all five of the rookies and their mentor, hand pressed over the side of his face where the corrosive dust ate away at his left eye, white, translucent clot of curdled white dripping with the blood, Rhys lets his pose be relaxed, goading them with every lazy flick of the red fabric curled over his outstretched palm.

“Decided yet which one of you will die first?” See, that’s the thing with fighting a crowd, everybody is always waiting for someone else to act first. The one to give in and lurch forward first will most likely die, as will the second. Sure, the sheer bulk will eventually tire their opponent out but sacrifices are needed to be made to start the process and no one is willing to pitch in first and give their life up just like that. “Come on. I haven’t got all day witch hunter pieces of shit.” He supposes their uncertainty stems partly from a total lack of orders from their stunned supervisor but eventually one of them gives into his goading, sprinting forward and waving his idiotic blade, a battle cry on his lips. So it has been settled, the ribbon darts around in a wide circle, setting the ground a flame, fire soaring high enough that it creates a barrier about the apprentice and the young knight, separating them from the others but not high enough to obscure the vision. Best to single them out first. This one’s death will be a warning and a foreshadowing of what’s to follow for the rest of them. His victim must be around his age, face turning red as claws, ripping through the leather of a glove, wrap around his throat, nearly crushing it. 

There is a medallion on his chest, burning bright with blinding light and trying to combat the dark tendrils Rhys commands, so his human hand comes to wrap around it, scorching his fingers and tearing a scream from him, but in the end, he manages to tear it off and carelessly toss into the flames. 

He has seen Jack turn his powers into something tangible, snake-like and curling around his feet, and Rhys has spent a lot of time mastering it so when the time is right, two of them, an extension of his shadow creeping over the ground, jerk forward, wrapping around the man’s feet and ankles, crushing them, leaving only mangled remains.

The twitching body is dropped down, and as the boy pulls back his clawed hand, intent on driving it through his victim’s chest and ripping it open, he misses a figure braving the slowly subsiding flames, dashing closer with a sword raised and then world turns into a pulsing flash of pain. He stumbles back, clutching the stump of his severed arm, eyes wide with real shock this time and the Sorcerer’s thoughts wildly swirl at the edges of his consciousness. Terror blinds his vision, blood spurting onto the ground, as he watches the witch huntress raise her weapon, intent on bringing it down onto his head but she’s made a grave mistake, going not for his human arm but the other one, the excess blood bubbling and shaping into the familiar form of a hellhound. It has its maw pulled back in a snarl, hellish glimmer spilling from the insides and the triple set of eyes squinted as it darts forward, bringing the knight down, head popped with a sickening crack between strong jaws. Rhys’ eyes, clouded with the overwhelming agony snap to the sliced off limb and it moves, answering his plea, black blood thrashing about and reaching towards him, hungry vines curling over the ground and eventually managing to move, scuttling over like a fucked up crab. That’s it, that’s his chance and the apprentice rolls over the ground, reaching out with the stump, a similar set of vine-like appendages stretching out until they connect and the arm is whole again, bones grating as they snap into place, flesh knitting itself over with a disgusting, wet sound. 

Well, that’s an interesting little thing he has learned today but there is no time to ponder over it, the rest of the hunters dashing in, their enchanted weapons gleaming in the twilight that has settled over the battlefield and they are down to last three, not counting the crippled man still squirming on the ground. Rhys needs to roll again, narrowly escaping a dagger plunged into the ground next to him but his clawed hand, still a little bit numb but acting again on its own, lurches forward, grabbing his attacker by the wrist and sending a brief burst of fire, exactly like the Sorcerer taught him when cauterizing his tools, scorching it and burning to the bone. Calling his weapon back to him, he makes it momentarily drop into a pool of blood, dark liquid coating it and instantly hardening at the parasite’s command so he can make it dive under the now one handed knight, and shoot straight up the body, entering through the nether regions and bursting through the tender flesh of their neck. No arteries were severely injured which means a slow and painful death, guts ripped and spilling their content on the inside, one lung probably punctured. He has to roll the body slumped over him off of himself, taking stock of the remaining enemies. 

The beast is still busy chomping down on its first victim’s remains, the blood seeping from under the corpse lazily bubbling as if still considering if it's worth taking a solid shape and joining in on the fun what with only two more witch hunters remaining. 

Their mentor, blinded on one side, is trying to make a smart move, probably more experienced than Rhys gave him credit for, the man turning his heel and trying to get away from the massacre, already quite far down the road but a whistle has the hellhound finally abandoning the mangled remains and breaking into a trot to chase the man down. 

The last two survivors are still inside of the burning circle and as Rhys finally moves to approach the girl kneeling next to the injured man, unable to either leave him or help him escape, she casts a protective ward around the two of them. His powers idly prodd at the edges of the sigil but it only burns them, tendrils bouncing back with a hiss. By now the bloodlust has subsided to something easily manageable and the apprentice slumps onto his hands and knees just outside of the protective hex, the smell of blood and gore finally registering with his mind and making his stomach revolt, body trembling as he retches, nothing coming out thankfully, and there is sweat dribbling down the side of his temple. She stares at him with wide eyes, clearly considering her options but eventually resigning herself to staying inside of her little bubble of safety as the shadows skirting along the edges of the road become more corporeal, taking in on a shape of a tall figure. 

The Sorcerer comes closer, crouching next to the dry heaving boy, one hand coming to affectionately pet through the sweaty hair, sticky and caked with blood.

“Lower your defenses child.” Jack’s voice is calm and collected, bordering on bored, the man clearly aware that the feeble ward wouldn’t even prove the slightest of challenges against his own powers. “You will live today. Rhysie here has a message for you to deliver, doesn’t he?” A hand curls under his chin, making the apprentice finally lift his hands off the ground and sit back, one hand coming up to push the mess of his hair back, confidence and stoicism regained with the simplest of touches coming from his master, bolstered with the way Jack’s voice curled softly around his name.

“Go back to where you came from. Find Vaughn, the new recruit you spoke of before. Tell him that his brother is still waiting for him. That I am willing to forgive him. Go.” She needs a little bit more of incentive in the form of Jack drowning away the sigil, unwilling to part with her dying companion but eventually choosing her own survival over comradeship.

“Feeling better sugar? Up to a lesson on corpse reanimation? You know, it’s better to start when they are only one foot in the grave.” The Sorcerer is idly teasing his fingers through the boy’s hair, a single look spared towards the still barely breathing knight and well, Rhys has to give it to himself, that’s the one that has so foolishly charged at him first, and he promised himself to kill that one last so that’s one good thing that came out of today. He shakes his head, turning it towards the other man and scooting a little bit closer to tuck his face into the material of Jack’s coat. It’s pleasant to the touch, thick and comforting and smelling just like Jack, the sensation calming, one arm coming to wrap around his shoulders and he sighs, listening halfheartedly as the freshly returned hellhound, joined by another one get down to devouring the half-dead man. 

-II-

They aren’t going to return to the castle just yet, Jack taking the completely passed out, drained kid to a medium-sized city located down South, just on the border of the Kingdom. He thinks his apprentice has earned a little reward, and so did he, for putting up with all the headache the kid gives him on a daily basis. Finnegan’s Wake is a tavern, old and crumbling down, not run by the locals but definitely frequented by them, a beloved gem bringing the shadiest clientele and offering the most fun per one drunkard in Jack’s opinion. 

One day later, he’s sat by the bar, a cheerful tune playing in the background and a beer stein with local ale in his hand, when his apprentice finally shows up, stumbling down the staircase leading from the living quarters, dressed in clean clothes and rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“What are we doing here?”

“What do you think? I don’t stay cooped in the castle all the time.” A smirk curls his lips at the shocked expression, one hand waving the bartender closer. “I’d like you to meet an old acquaintance of mine, Moxxi. Moxxi, dear, this is my apprentice.” He watches with amusement as the woman scales the beanpole with curious eyes and then unceremoniously pulls him closer by the collar.

“Not your typical choice Sorcerer.” She couldn’t be more wrong but then again, he doesn’t go around advertising the kid’s powers.

“He makes do.” Rhys scrunches his nose, clearly annoyed that they are ignoring him but the expression turns into utter surprise when she yanks him closer, pressing a quick peck to the tip of his nose.

“If that’s the case… what would you like sweet thing?” There is an uncertain motion towards whatever Jack’s having and soon enough a tall stein arrives before the younger man, thick foam spilling over the edge and later, sticking to his upper lip as he takes a swig. It’s followed with a few more greedy gulps and chased with a happy sigh.

The Sorcerer stays quiet, watching his apprentice chug down nearly the full content of the mug with satisfaction, a tinge of blush brought to his cheeks and a slight glimmer in his mismatched eyes. As the currently drowsy tune drops into something faster, he can see the boy perking up and stealing glances towards the center of the tavern where a couple of men and women gathered to indulge into the local ritual of getting piss drunk and then dancing it off. Jack rolls his eyes at the unspoken question and shrugs his shoulders, as much of a consent to fooling around as he would bother giving and Rhys is already darting towards the crowd.

In a way, Moxxi is right, Rhys isn’t his typical choice, appearing frail and constantly needing to feel protected. And Jack generally prefers strong and self-reliant people, but it speaks to something long forgotten inside of him. The way his apprentice turns to him for help with every miniscule detail, things ranging between a splinter in his finger and a sleepless night, annoying for most of the part but it makes him feel needed, in charge of something so extremely vulnerable he cannot stop himself from toying with it constantly. 

Sometimes it's like picking a scab, wedging his fingernail under dried blood and peeling it off to expose tender flesh, his harsh words and actions often making the boy cower in fear but fuck if it isn’t just as satisfying despite the hurtful look he usually receives chafing at something inside of him and leaving him feeling raw. But sometimes instead of a dejected expression he gets a brief glance of envy and utter admiration and he cannot help himself but grow a little bit prouder with each one. 

Then again, the pure power, flourishing with each passing day, has him positively breathless, lusting after it himself and everytime he sees the hellhounds rising, their image very closely modeled after their original, a figure carved in stone and still beyond his grasp, twisted slightly by the boy’s own mind to reminisce more familiar dogs, Jack wants it for himself a little bit more. 

He knows he wants Rhys, body, soul, powers and everything that makes him the way he is, exclusively for himself, to play with, to use, to destroy or to mend. And Jack doesn’t do half measures, it’s all or nothing and he’d rather have the former but if he ever felt the kid slip from his grasp, well... he’s harbouring enough genuinely positive feelings for him that the end would be swift. Slim chances of that however, the multiple levels of leashes slipped over the boy’s neck without his knowledge and sometimes, you know… if you care for someone you need to protect them, even against their wishes.

The Sorcerer ends up needing to pull the walking embarrassment from the table a little while later, the boy lacing his arms with people either side of him, a row of town’s folk cheerfully bouncing together and swinging their legs interchangeably in unison as a gruff vocal keeps droning on about the adventures of one pantless fella. Jack vows to Moxxi that he will never ever show his face around the place again, to which she just tells him to work that mage staff out of his ass.

-II-

He’s pleasantly buzzed, a little crestfallen that the fun stopped before it has really started but his mood instantly sparks at the prospect of a good soak. 

“Get in there sugar, you’ve earned that.” He doesn’t need to be told twice, it’s rare, or even unheard of, that the Sorcerer would let him into the water first Rhys usually getting the moderately lukewarm water and suds swirling on the surface so it’s no surprise that he nearly trips over his own legs, hastily undressing before plopping himself into the tub. It’s different than the one at the castle, larger and round but what he can appreciate the most is that he didn’t need to fill it himself. His idle musing is interrupted with a command to scoot over and as his eyes shoot up, he’s met with the sight of the Sorcerer already stripped bare and prodding the water with his finger. 

“Come on. Stop giving me that look, I want some of that love too. Need I remind you who’s paying for that?” So much for having it all to himself, Rhys sighs but curls his legs obediently, knees tucked under his chin. “You did very well yesterday boy, making me proud.” That has him instantly perking up, their legs bumping as Jack submerges himself in the water, stretching his legs with little modesty and nudging the boy to move a little bit to the side. The low rumble of the Sorcerer’s voice sends pleasant shivers down his spine and deepens the persistent flush sticking to his face. “Tell me, you want a little reward?” The way it is said… it sounds more like Jack was asking -him- for a favour, not offering one. 

“Yeah… what are you offering?” The months they have spent together tell him that it’s better to make sure what the other man means before blindly accepting anything.

“Pleasure.” It’s simple and yet usually so far from his mind Rhys needs to cock his head, pondering over the option. He was hoping for something… something -more- or at least more enticing at the very least. His head droops, feet idly patting against the bottom of the tube and he shoots the Sorcerer a dejected look

“I have little interest for the wenches I saw downstairs.” There is a pause, the other man momentarily left speechless before he throws his head back, loud laughter startling his apprentice.

“Silly thing. I mean -me-.”

Oh.

OH.

Jack sounds like he’s the greatest prize in the whole universe and given his overly bloated ego, he probably also deeply believes that. No disputing that on Rhys’ part. But it also has him freezing on the spot, nostrils flaring and a perplexed expression on his face. There is the tiniest of nods given, teeth grazing over his lower lip, which in return makes the Sorcerer scoff.

“Nu-huh sugar. Words, I need words, we’ve been over this already.”

“Y-yeah. I’d like that.” He wouldn’t just -like- that, he’d fucking love that, ever since coming across that damned book, hell even before that, the other man has been constantly on his mind, thoughts carefully tucked away and hidden from the inquisitive presence poking at the edges of his consciousness. 

“Good choice. I need you to sit back and relax baby boy, let me -in- and let me work some sweet magic on you.” There is a quirky smirk shot his way, making his rabbit heart stutter before picking up a faster pace. Not a single word of protest given, Rhys reclines a little bit more comfortably, mirroring the Sorcerer’s own pose and letting his eyes fall shut as he opens his mind and soul to the intrusion. It’s gentle, as always, making up for the lion’s share of its allure, easing into his body and slowly curling around his thoughts and desires. There is a clink and a rustle of leather, the Sorcerer apparently strapping back his glove and gauntlet, soon followed by an involuntary twitch of his clawed fingers. They move, tracing over Rhys’ chest and as he opens his eyes, there is a louder gasp, hard to say whose, because he can see Jack doing the same thing, his motion repeated, but also because the Sorcerer apparently can see himself, the slight pressure against the socket of his left eye a telltale sign of another spectator, the image feeding his egocentrism and spurring him on. 

Fingers skirt higher, creeping over the tattoos on his throat to exert an increasing pressure, and the way Jack’s eyes turn glazed over as the air becomes gradually cut off, coupled with the sensation itself make heat begin pooling low in his stomach. A double gasp of air later and sharp tips press to his lower lip, nudging his mouth open, but they do not seem all that intent on pushing in, skirting over the soft skin and teasing, the boy too entranced by the expression on the other man’s face to realize that his little oral fixation is being used against him. 

Or maybe not so against him given how it makes him flush a deeper shade of red, eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to keep his eyes open and focused. 

Rhys isn’t shy, not by a long shot, but he’s largely inexperienced, acting more on instincts and the most basic of desires, desires which now tell him that he needs more to quench the fire slowly burning inside of him so he rolls his tongue out, tasting the rough pads and swiping it over the smooth texture of the claws, accidentally nicking himself on the sharp edge. He’d very much like to take it further, itching for something more solid to hang onto but there is a growl coming from the other man as he tries to make a move, the Sorcerer not done with teasing just yet. 

And Rhys supposes it’s just the way he’d expect the other man to be, always in control and always happy to toy with him, the boy quietly hoping that he won’t end up broken and discarded as many other playthings before him. It takes some more claws skimming over the soft flesh, skin turning reddened and tender, before he’s being called over, hesitantly seating himself on Jack’s lap, clearly feeling that he’s not the only one affected by the touch and briefly running his tongue over his lips, he decides to be a little bit selfish and take something for himself. 

Forcing his spiked arm, and in return forcing Jack’s, to rest at the nape of his, -their- necks, his forwardness and the reverse feedback surprising the other man, Rhys wiggles closer, knees on either sides of the other man’s hips as his clawed fingers curl into the shorter hair, feeling a tug against his own head and there is a yank given for his insolence, one which has both of them jerking their heads back.  
He wants a kiss, having read in the book currently slowly dissolving at the bottom of the moat, that it’s important and something that should be carried with extra dedication, but lack of practice aside from a fleeting peck from a closer relative or well, Moxxi for that matter, has him simply smacking their lips together, noses bumping and teeth clanking. It doesn’t yield the desired results, the Sorcerer bursting out with laughter, his other hand coming to wrap tightly around Rhys’ waist.

“Oh sugar. Who taught you that?” No one. That’s the point but he only replies with a pout, eyes darting away from Jack’s face to deny him the pleasure of seeing his own overly pleased smirk. “C'mere, I ain’t your master for nothing, can’t have my apprentice running about and kissing people like he’s trying to hammer a nail to their face. With -his- face. Simply disgraceful.” The Sorcerer shifts underneath him, moving closer to the center of the tub, the water, slowly losing its temperature, spilling over the edge and he ends up with his ass deposited back onto the bottom and adjusting his position so that his legs can loosely wrap around the other man, a mirrored tangle of limbs and two figures leaning into each other. 

Jack kisses like he means it, probably because he does but it also perfectly reflects the way the man -is- and how his powers have always felt. All hot tongued where Rhys is only tongue-tied, insistent but only when welcomed, and taking over every ounce of him, claiming, biting and enveloping the boy in his cock-sureness and a promise of safety. It makes him melt into the arms around him and melt into the hungry lips, trying to reply but finding himself unable to keep up the pace, simply letting the other man devour him, little moans pushing when there is a little leeway to catch a breath. 

His eagerness to repay the favour, quickly picking up on little things such as a nibble to a reddened lip here or a swipe of his tongue over sharp teeth there, and the way he always ends up backing away and submitting seems to be making Jack grow impatient. The water has cooled down by now, bordering on unpleasant despite the burning body against his and the sentiment has to be shared as the Sorcerer ends up shoving him away at one point springing to his feet and dragging the boy with himself, water running in rivulets down the naked bodies, tickling and dripping back into the tub with soft plinks. Rhys stares with wide eyes, clouded with need and something that distinctively feels like a fever sans the negative effects, and his heart skips at the wild, dangerous expression on the other man’s face. He’s seen that before, the hunger bringing out a fine web of shallow wrinkles fanning from Jack’s narrowed eyes and the swirling fire in those golden eyes and it has never made him afraid. It doesn’t make him afraid now either, a tense second as they stare at each other ticking away before Jack takes a long breath through his nose and clears his throat.

“That’s your time to decide if you want more, sugar.”

As if it ever was a question, all he always asked of the Sorcerer was ‘more’ and that’s what he asks for right now, crashing back into him and the full body contact, the way Jack’s muscles feel under his touch and the way he twitches against Rhys’ hip in response to the sudden proximity, sends his mind reeling. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, damn eager little thing, get to bed, I’ll be right there.” He never thought Jack was capable of producing sounds that didn’t sound downright evil but the chuckle that follows his command is only a little bit evil and a whole lotta -hot-. Although, Rhys guesses, when it comes to Jack those two are hardly mutually exclusive.

Unsure of what to do with himself, mind supplying every dirty thing he had seen in the book, he simply decides to flop himself down onto the bed, hands, for the lack of anything better to do, coming to rub over his face as he watches the other man shake the water off, much like a dog would do, and quickly rummage through bottles with scented bath products settled on the nearby shelf. A curse slips his lips as one of them tumbles to the ground shattering and Rhys thinks he will forever associate the intense scent of orange peel and cloves with the way Jack’s hand briefly trembles before wrapping around what he was looking for.

When he’s joined, his claws come up to rest over the corner of quirked lips, surprise making his eyebrows knit because he sure as hell wasn’t planning on doing that, the hand refusing to budge as he tries to pull it back and he mumbles a little ‘sorry’, staring down the disobedient limb. 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” To his confusion, Jack only nudges into the fingers, murmuring a quiet ‘hello’ as if greeting an old acquaintance, and he lets the thumb slip over and then between his lips. He can feel the way a soft tongue moves against the pad of his finger despite mouth pulling into a tight circle and giving a loud slurping suck. The heated gaze he’s receiving when his eyes snap to meet the golden ones, is enough to tell him that he’s not doing anything wrong here. The contact ceases fairly quickly and the other man leans down to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, surprising him both with the tender gesture as well as the way Jack seems to be trying to breath in his scent, nosing higher, over his ear and into the fluffed up hair at the side of his temple.

“This your first time with another man, baby boy?” A nod.

“This your first time at all?” A shake of his head and a chuckle from the Sorcerer. “Shame.”

There is a prompt to roll over and onto his side, the front of his body instantly growing to miss the warmth of the contact, soon enough slightly placated when he can feel the same warmth cuddling to his back and teeth grazing over his shoulder.

A cork pops and Rhys swallows in anticipation.

He can’t see what’s going on behind his back but he gets and inkling as one slippery hand moves between his legs, rubbing up and forcing a strangled whine out of him, the intimate touch sending shudders down his spine. Rough fingers, smoothly gliding over sensitive skin that has so rarely been touched, make him tilt his body forward slightly, thighs parting as he braces himself with one knee against the bed and pushes his face into the pillows, completely swept away by the sensation.

“Nu-huh, stay like this, keep your legs together, sugar.” Alright, he can do that, tucking one foot under the other to keep them locked in place and the hand moves to pet over his hip as a reward. He’s tugged closer to a broad chest, one armored arm sneaking underneath him, the cold metal raising goosebumps in its wake before it wraps around his chest and he can feel lips moving to press sloppy kisses into his shoulder blade, a choppy breath ghosting over damp spots bringing out a few eager mewls out of him. Jack finally, -finally- moves, pushing between the full flesh of his thighs and languidly rolling his hips. The sensation of smooth, hard flesh rubbing against tender skin is more than rewarding, double so when a hand previously resting over his hip moves to graze along the definition of his upper thigh, skirting along the crease just above it but straying away from the center.

“Can you do something for me sweet thing? Can you touch yourself? Nice and slow, not like you did back at the castle.” That certainly has him jerking forward, lulled with false security of that deep rumbling voice and in a true Handsome Sorcerer fashion dragged out of it to be made fun of. How did he know? Now, his previous flush has developed into a full blown blush, threatening to colour him red head to toe. His hesitation has teeth, only teasing at first, sink deeper into his skin, the hand at his chest pulling him closer as Jack drives himself harder between his thighs and there is no denying that he likes that harsher treatment, clawed hand fisting into the bedsheets and tearing them. Rhys wouldn’t disobey his master, never, and so he follows the words murmured against his bitten skin, chewing at his lower lip to stifle a whine building in his throat. 

It’s a matter of a handful of strokes, the originally calm voice now leaning more into a breathy side, walking him through it before his whole body tenses, trapping the hot flesh between his thighs for a precious couple of seconds. It quickly subsides, a bone-deep weariness settling slowly into his muscles, mind blissfully blank and little tremors running up his body at the calming sensation of the man behind him still rocking the both of them and keeping him close and protected.

-II-

Jack doesn’t need much either, his hand now moving to push the boy’s leg down, the previous pressure easing to an unsatisfactory level and he stifles his own whine into the reddened skin, littered with bite marks by now.

By the time he shakes the feeling off, he has an armful of one peacefully snoring apprentice, the alcohol and excitement quickly wearing the boy down. It’s fine, the Sorcerer thinks, he’ll stay like that for just a tiny little while longer and kick Rhys out of the bed then, possibly chucking the soiled bedsheets after him to watch those long legs tangle into it and the inevitable downfall.  
It’s going to be hilarious, he thinks, eyelids slowly falling shut and feeling like the whole world has settled on top of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im marking it off as finished bc idk if ill come back here or start a new thing, doesn't feel like i have enough content for a completely new thing so chances are ill untick the 'finished' box later. who knows i certainly dont.
> 
> if you care for the song playing at the tavern then : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yw0bLHTOb0


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack thinks of doing the thing.  
> He does it and he does it -wrong-.  
> He does it again and finally gets it right.

_The fire in the hearth will soon die out, a little flicker of flame by now, licking at the embers with uncertainty, one that is not shared when a soothing voice of the narrator tells you ‘and then they lived happily ever after’. All tales come to an end, the good prevailed and the evil was defeated, crumbled to pieces, scattered as the wind sweeps over the barren ground, a nearby crater of an abandoned battleground and the last remaining memory of the slain villain. But what it won’t tell you is that, when all is said and done, the story spun and re-told over and over again, the life moves on. And life doesn’t do happy endings. It doesn’t do ‘bad’ endings either, the heroes and heroines continue their lives, stuck in the grey morality of reality and stuck with the consequences of their choices._

Rhys supposes that it’s true, life is just what it is with all its hardships, brightened by those fleeting moments of daydreaming as the story unfolds. And Jack supposes it’s a load of horse shit, he’s a living proof that if you refuse to accept death and prose of life you get to write your own story, making it as extraordinary as you wish.

_When crack turns into a hiss, warmth curled between red-hot coals, it’s time to get up and get going, whether you are the hero or the villain, whether by the end of the story you are expected to survive or not, everybody fights tooth and nail for their own ‘happily ever after’ but what they ultimately want is just ‘they lived’._

-II-

Time is a fickle thing, it loves to seep like water through your grasp when you are not watching but the moment you pay closer attention, it becomes an unbearable drag. Even to someone who has lived as long as the Sorcerer did, no magic strong enough to stop or turn it, but these days it dashes so fast that the only indicator are the changes he can occasionally pick in his apprentice. Last two years have settled heavily onto squared shoulders, a little broader by now and the experience that came with it, has made the young man hold his chin that little bit higher, grit and arrogance hardening the lines of his eyes.

Jack thought, or maybe hoped, the fleeting moment they shared back at the tavern would sate and satisfy his curiosity for long enough to let him take a step back and take stock of the situation. But all he got was more conflicting feelings and desires. It wouldn’t do good to have attachment colour his actions with hesitation, his doubts costing him a daughter once, lost to a curse he could not contain and his own ambitions. And so he distances himself, tries to do so anyway, which turns out about as hard as he gets by the end of the day, his apprentice, thinking he’s entitled to a little bit more closeness than his usual touchy-feely approach, ending up chased away. There is comfort and peace of mind to be found in the knowledge that no matter what, there is no one else in this world to ever kiss Rhys the way he did, no one to touch and make him fall apart with but a few words, any more intimate physicality denied and growled away with a warning that ‘he’s had his fill’. Doesn’t stop the only slightly dejected menace from constantly invading Jack’s personal space. 

He fends these thoughts off with work and an occasional lay to keep his spirits up, dropping by the nearest town from time to time or sending a messenger to the brothel’s owner, an unfortunate soul showing up a day or two later. An agreement he has with the woman running the pleasure house is lucrative enough that he doesn’t mind returning her property in a more or less acceptable state while at the same time she easily accommodates for some of Jack’s more unusual demands, a forewarning that this or that particular order isn’t meant for coming back always sent beforehand and accompanied by a hefty sum. This arrangement is broken however when he accidentally gets sent a tall, lanky boy who’s full of coy smiles and the familiar mannerism of a spoiled brat which in return make the Sorcerer cross the line he has set for himself, throwing caution to the wind and weaving a little spell to alter the appearances. A blink and mismatched eyes stare back at him, soft lips stretched wide to accommodate for the girth shoved down the boy’s throat. It feels right for just a couple of moments before an odd movement here or a wrong look there break the pretenses. The panicked fear, when Jack’s hands shoot down to wrap around his throat, doesn't carry that subtle tinge of submission and adoration, even as he flips him over and drives himself inside with little care for preparation or the chaffing he’s currently putting his flesh through. Frustration quickly takes over the Sorcerer, and even the claws of his gauntlet tearing gashes in that stupid face bring no satisfaction. However, the screams bring something else, a fist banging at the door and a voice calling for his attention, startling him at once, hands tightening in an automatic reaction and neck snapping with a crack. 

A long, strained sigh and a billow of smoke curling about his body to take a shape of a robe shrouding his body later, Jack is leaning against the doorframe, barring the entrance with his bulk.

“What do you want?” It doesn’t escape his notice how Rhys’ nose scrunches, picking up the scent of blood and arousal, eyes squinting as he tries to peek over his shoulder.

“Can’t get any shuteye with all the noise you’re making.” He needs to count backwards from ten to one, not because of the annoyed -and- annoying words but because there is a stray wisp of hair clinging to one slightly flushed cheek, making the urge to tuck it behind the ear tremble down his curled fist. It all plays out in his mind, one bloodied hand coming up to gently brush it away, a few separate hairs sticking to the skin for a second, and then he thinks of dragging his fingers lower, claws gingerly scraping over the surface and leaving pretty streaks of crimson. He would stop at the lips, pliant flesh dipping under the pressure, a shake of his head given now to rid himself of the image and of the memory of the taste he would undoubtedly feel again if he only leaned forward. 

“You losing your hearing is just one wish away.” Jack snaps his fingers and snaps out of it, following the remark with a crooked smirk that has his apprentice stumbling back with a mortified expression on his face.

“I’d rather keep it.”

“So stuff it stupid thing.”

“Hell. Just what -is- your problem?” 

_You._

With a slow exhale comes some semblance of calm, fists uncurling, the crescents of half moons etched into the skin of his palms where nails dug too deep.

“Go back to sleep child.” A few more threats have Rhys stomping away, clearly insulted and huffing as he went. The Sorcerer feels like it’s him who should be throwing a tantrum, his fun abruptly stopped. With a sigh, he returns to the bedroom, a look spared towards the corpse and a slight hesitation to his step.

Later that night he takes it to his study room, a few spells hissed through the snarl on his lips and around still lingering frustration, make the body move again, sluggishly at first. Enough time has passed, the brain damage too severe for any remains of personality to survive, for the reanimated horror to join his army, the lazily assembled armour knitting with the flesh.

-II-

The Sorcerer stumbles upon an ancient scroll, tucked between even older pages, and an idea. An idea which he realizes in the form of a body currently laid on an altair, bare chest slowly rising and falling with even breaths, forced, as the echo of a frantic heartbeat tells him. The knife in his hand has been enchanted with old and powerful magic, one he doesn’t wield easily, something the witch hunters were more accustomed to despite their boastful claims that it was a power that came from the gods, not magic.  
But the gods are indifferent, regardless of how their blessings are used, one such little divine boon currently used by their, if not biggest then definitely loudest, naysayer. If he could collect enough essence of the parasite and bind it to his will, the hellhounds would be at his exclusive disposal, leaving his apprentice defenseless but giving Jack a foothold in assuming control of the Warrior. In the far-off end of the chamber a couple of his soldiers stand, ranging between those who have been stripped bare of flesh over time and the newest addition, still bearing the Sorcerer’s spell despite the mangled face. They are there for some additional protection, mute and completely motionless, waiting for an indication to act.

Stained leather wraps itself around two wrists, one growing suspicious and beginning to thrash about making the boy squirm uncomfortably, shoulder arched at an awkward angle to expose his forearm, another strap tightly wound just above the elbow and between two spikes.

“Easy there.” There is no promise that it won’t hurt because they both know it will, a gentle prod along the bond meaning to ease the tension but only met with a barrage of emotions bursting back. He didn’t anticipate that it would turn to be a double edged blade, getting unwanted feedback as his apprentice constantly kept trying to reach back, tracing the edges of Jack’s comfort with the curiosity of a child that has stumbled across a new toy. What he gets right now is an untamed torrent of unwavering trust, apprehension and a dash of admiration which in return easily manage to put -him- at ease. 

Rhys stays quiet for the first couple of moments, bravely sucking in shallow breaths, sweat quickly breaking over his trembling chest, and the glazed over eyes shot Jack’s way when he pulls his attention from the work at hand, momentarily make something in his stomach flip. A dirtied hand abandons its task, pushing through messy hair, chased with a murmured ‘let it all go sugar’ and the screams that soon follow, shake the Sorcerer to the core. It’s not that they are a novelty in any way, he has heard the sounds of people being flayed before and he has heard Rhys scream till his throat turned raw before but the sobbed gasps in between are what really does it for him. Not unlike the strangled hitch of breath as the boy came, tightly wrapped in Jack’s arms and with his dick trapped between two trembling thighs, and almost the same as the Sorcerer imagines he would sound bent over, with a dick sliding into his ass this time.  
The knife is sharp enough that it glides over the skin effortlessly, making it part and expose the flesh, carefully peeling back the rough plates covering Rhys’ right arm. It instantly tries to seal over but Jack makes the tendrils of his powers push between the tissue, keeping it open to his ministrations. What he’s looking for is the place where the parasite has nestled itself, the blood dripping from an open wound crimson red and to Jack’s surprise carrying no traces of the malicious being despite this being the most likely guess. However it still carries its will, turning darker as it hits the floor and taking on a familiar, hulking shape. His warriors stir at the command ushered their way but the beast ends up nervously turning around a couple of times, ears curled back and with nothing to direct its attention at, it simply moves to slump by the altar, tongue lolling out as if it was nothing more but an overgrown pup. It is as good of an indication that in the end Rhys is still in control as he will get, so with nothing distracting him anymore, the Sorcerer returns to his work.  
The pained whimper as the tip of his blade begins nudging away a bundle of muscles prompts a shake of his head and a few reassuring words mumbled under his breath. Technically he could take away some of the burn, same way he did when he set off to tame the parasite but today requires so much more of his attention he wouldn’t dare dividing it. And that’s exactly the reason he refuses to let this idiot too close, cautious of what leniency would cost him this time, Jack painfully aware of this flaw of his, making him a little bit too willing to give into his emotions when involved. But then, technically, he wouldn’t get to hear half of those sweet moans and it makes up for the tear in his heart. 

By the time he gets to the bone, chipping it in the process, Jack doesn’t get any closer to the answer he’s looking for, tired out and feeling the wobble of his own powers as they struggle to maintain the entry point open. And so he gives up for tonight, tendrils curling back and disappearing into the fringes of his shadow, quivering with the flicker of a candle, the flesh knitting over quickly and leaving no traces of earlier violation.

The way Rhys looks at him when his hand comes to brush back a stray wisp of hair back, all red-faced and tear-stricken, makes the beast curled in the pit of his stomach rumble, deeply pleased and satisfied at the vulnerability he can see. However, when the boy strains his neck to nuzzle into his palm, completely disregarding his own blood, dried out by now and clinging in crusty blotches to a thicker dusting of hair above his wrist, and whispers a hoarse ‘thank you’, Jack falters. He stumbles back, turning away from the sight and with his back against the stone altar, slowly sinks back onto the floor, knees tucked under his chin and dirty fingers coming to rake through his hair, weariness settling in his bones but also in his mind. It’s not that he doesn’t like the view, quite the opposite in fact, but when you couple it with a whisper of gratitude on cracked lips and that gut-wrenching drowsy look, it makes him want to bottom up, hands shaky and desperate to hold onto something, catching the shards of his crumbling defenses and watching them slip between blood-stained fingers. He’s too drained to deal with it right now, desperately in need of a moment alone to collect himself after his defeat.

There is a soft rustle of bare skin against the marble and a hitch of breath, followed with the creak of leather as the boy hesitantly unstraps himself, the restrains left with enough give to let him slip away any time, before shakily getting up. He must be sore, Jack thinks, and will be even more once the burn of strained muscles fully settles in, the feedback usually coming around in full force the next day as it usually did. Soon enough a body slinks beside him, fingers skirting over his arm, with little care for the distance the Sorcerer tried to keep, Rhys coming on unstable legs and reaching over with a trembling hand that had no right to break his defenses this effortlessly.  
The voice, quiet and rough from the abuse the previous yelling put his vocal cords through inquires if Jack needs anything, a drink or food but doesn’t ask the most important question. He ends up shooing the kid away, urging him to just get going and get lost, dismissive of the concern because the blood on his hands isn’t his and perhaps what he needed but not necessarily wanted to hear was ‘do you need me’ instead of what he got. 

Alone in the chamber, the hellhound, much to Jack’s chagrin, disappearing with its owner, his eyes sweep over the empty space before slowly fixing on the soldiers still awaiting further orders. There is no satisfaction in ripping apart something that is mute and impassive but it’s still more fulfilling that carving away at a flesh that would just heal instantly. He hates the blank void in Rhys’-not-Rhys’ eyes, even as he tucks his hand down the front of his pants, and as he comes, he comes to a conclusion that his toy wouldn’t look good all dressed in death.  
Kicking away the severed head, Jack stumbles back to his bedroom, dead tired and unsatisfied as fuck.

-II-

For lack of any better company, the Sorcerer growing even grumpier with each failed attempt at killing the parasite, Rhys is left with a little extra time on his hands and no one to watch over him. With time the words warning him to stay away from the dungeons fade, the door leading down a spiral staircase left slightly ajar, a temptation hard to decline.  
So he doesn’t try resisting, a flicker of flame in his palm lighting up the way as he carefully braves one step after another.

Angel finds him instantly, maybe for the better because the maze spanning before him looks like something that would swallow him in a second and never spit out.

“Jack’s been treating you awfully.”

“How do you know?” He finds a more or less comfortably looking rock, seating himself down and fishing a little something to nibble on out of his pocket. His offer to share is turned down and the answer that she only has taste for human flesh makes him shrug. All the more for him.

“What else would you be doing here.”

“When you put it like that it does sound bad.”

This time it’s her who shrugs, scuttling closer and plopping herself down beside him, idly fiddling with a stretch of web, a habit of hers or so it seems.

They talk, uninterrupted and simply enjoying the contact of another being, Rhys learning that she was much older than her fairly young looks would suggest, born just before Jack became the Sorcerer, her condition undoubtedly having pushed him over the edge. There is regret to her voice, his inquiries about the origins of how she came to be the way she is quickly dismissed, Angel however, is quite happy to share the story of Jack’s rise to power, a warning slipped between the lines. Anything to throw her Father’s apprentice off the sheep-fucking line of thoughts he seemed to still be intent on following.

_Not every man is born evil, every man however is inclined towards the darkness in their soul, some more, some less and Jack has always been the former. With time his powers grew, as did his ambitions, slowly consuming the man he used to be and bringing unwanted attention._  
_The first time he died was with the witchhunt brand seared across his face, cornered by the knights who followed the mark like trained blood hounds, bringing the man before the court to stand for his crimes of witchcraft. Burned down on the stakes and reborn later as the Handsome Sorcerer, shreds of his powers escaping the holy fire and taking possession of the first person they stumbled across._  
_It took him a lifespan and another snatched body, now fixed with a mask, moulded to suit his needs, to regain his strength, crawling back to the top before an inevitable fall.  
_ _Body after body, physical aspects adjusted to suit current needs, the Sorcerer kept perpetuating his mistakes, hubris catching up with each and every incarnation, whether in the form of a knife stuck into the infamous Blood Baroness’ back or spells casting the Emperor into oblivion just as he was about to stake his claim to the ancient creature._

“Do not pity the fool, we all live with our mistakes. Some just more than once.”

“I do not. It’s just… the man I know, with all those stupid feathers that he keeps shedding and a penchant for making my life -hell-... he doesn’t feel like the person you’ve described.”

“Behind every legend or tale is a real man. And despite everything, Jack is what he is, a human, frail and bound by his desires, more power in his hands than anyone should have. An ill suited combination if you ask me, his obsession leading him past the turning point.” 

“You disapprove.” It’s a simple statement but what Rhys is really asking about is whether she considered doing something, anything to stop her Father.

“I do. Whatever it is that he’s using you for, he’s bound to fail anyway, I see no use in trying to turn against him. Do you?”

“No! Of course not.” Truth is, if need be he’d take the fall for the Sorcerer, the fear of rejection and the high that came with being praise whenever he did something good are one hell of a drug, his addiction way out of control by now.

“Eager. But stupid. But eager. This may save you for a little longer Rhys. But I fully anticipate to see you strolling in here one day with a mask fixed over your face and that annoying smirk on.” She moves closer, tugging the sleeve of his jacket up to inspect the markings weaved into his skin. “You bear his mark on your flesh but no seed in the heart. I’d say run while you can but you are in too deep, aren’t you?”

That sends a shudder down his spine, an unsettling feeling he cannot quite place curling in the pit of his stomach. He’s been in too deep the moment he stepped over the threshold of the castle and kept spiraling down ever since. But, Rhys thinks, he gets deep enough and he might just find the answer to the darkness pulling at his strings, something that would finally make it feel like coming home.

-II-

His Angel, what a good girl she is, despite exasperation colouring her words and the stinging disapproval, she has dutifully relied everything that he needed his apprentice to know. Telling it himself just wouldn’t do, what he’s after is a genuine reaction and the anticipated step back so he can tighten the leash around the boy’s neck, regaining control of his own thoughts in turn.

No such luck as it turns out, and as the night rolls in, he ends up with an uninvited guest slumped on the rug by his bedside. That’s a nice place for keeping your apprentice, Jack reckons. 

“What is it, sugar?” Despite the distance he tries to maintain, for his own sake, their relations haven’t changed much, the Sorcerer’s mannerisms and Rhys’ cluelessness too much of integral parts of their personalities. The boy moves his head, chin propped against the edge of the bed, eyes rimmed with traces of red.

“I don’t want you to dispose of me when I stop being useful. I don’t… I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I am not going to do that, silly thing.” He is. That’s the plan at least, one which he grows less and less partial with the passage of time. “What brought that on?” In all honesty, Jack has no bloody idea where that neediness comes from and what spurred it on today, but then again, he supposes that the farther away he tries to shove this little annoyance of his, the more insistent it is on crawling back closer.

“Nothing, just… you’ve been avoiding me. Looking for company elsewhere.” He has broken this man over and over again, carefully piecing back together so it’s no wonder he turned out to be a skewed image of Jack himself. Flaws included.

“That jealousy I’m hearing?” 

“Envy.” Eventually the Sorcerer just gives in, tired out by the constant clawing and demands for attention, patting the bedding in an invitation. It’s taken eagerly, a moment of hesitation before the boy settles down at a more or less safe distance, closer to the foot of the bed and twiddling his thumbs, teeth grazing at his lower lip.

“What makes you think you could satisfy me?” That earns him a good dose of sighing, avoided eye contact and even more abuse to the lips gradually growing redder. Which in turn makes Jack roll his eyes, another pat, this time to his chest, given. “C’mere.”

“I don’t. I didn’t mean it like...that.” Well of course he didn’t, not a single impure thought on his blissful mind. Ever. Regardless, heavy warmth settles over him, Rhys way too big and long and elbowy to make the arrangement even remotely comfortable but still cuddling closer when an arm comes to wrap around him. “I just like it here, with you. And you’ve been treating me as if I was made of glass.” That brings out a hearty laughter out of the Sorcerer, little idea as to on which plain of reality putting someone through what he put his apprentice on a regular basis accounted for ‘treating someone as if they were made of glass’.

“All right, tell me then, what are you made of?”

“I … mmm…” He can nearly see Rhys panicking over and raking his mind in search of an answer, the clawed fingers beginning to thrum against the Sorcerer chest. “Well, you are the brains of it and I’m… well I’m not the muscles either. I’d say at least an eye candy but it’s not me whom people call handsome... “ That quickly spirals into a ramble, the kid becoming more and more flustered as he kept talking, unable to stop himself until a finger against his lips does it for him.

“I’ll tell you what you are, sugar.” There are two eyes curiously peeking into his, eagerness making the body on top of him nearly vibrate. Third time’s the charm and now he gets to live out his wildest fantasy, a hand coming up to brush away an unruly curl, tucking it behind his ear and the look he receives for that is everything he wanted to see, warmth spreading outwards from inside of his chest and meeting the warmth coming from the outside. Before moving on however, he makes another motion, the still gloved finger coming to tap the boy on his shoulder, and then draws a small circle in the air, an indication to turn around. He has to rearrange himself to, sitting a fraction higher with his back against the headboard and with one excited apprentice between his legs, slumped low, facing away from Jack but still trying to crane his head back.  
“Sugar, that’s what you are made of.” Despite the squirming, the hands around Rhys’ midsection only tighten their hold, a sharp chin resting over his shoulders, as the words ghost over the shell of his ear. “In my travels, I’ve seen skilled craftsmen work their technique, heating up a portion of raw sugar.” The mood easily takes over Jack, palms beginning to lightly rub over Rhys’ front to illustrate the point of heating things up. “They wait till it just about melts, so it’s nice and pliable.” He paws and kneads at the soft flesh, checking its pliantness. “So that when it’s ready...” And it probably -is- ready, given the small whine. “...they can take a handful of it and shape a small bauble…” There isn’t anything better to illustrate his point than the empty noggin’ of this air-head, fingers curling under his chin and giving a gentle nudge till he rests it back against Jack’s shoulder. “... and then they blow air into it.” Ignoring the hair tickling the side of his face, the Sorcerer leans slightly forward, lips pressing to the exposed stretch of tattooed skin, and unceremoniously blows a raspberry into his shoulder, prompting some more squirming and a delighted giggle.

“Why would they do that?”

“It’s art, they form it into animals or small objects, much like gaffers form glass.” 

“That’s what you think of me? A candy to be blown however you like?” There is not a trace of objection to the kid’s words but his blunt innocence makes Jack want to thump his head against the nearest wall. “How do they shape it?”

A thoughtful hum comes as the initial response, fingers nudging the laces holding Rhys’ shirt together apart so metal claws can skirt over the warm skin unobstructed.  
“They pinch…” just as Jack does “...and twist to give it the desired shape.” A gasp follows the reddening patch of skin left in the wake of his attention, hands moving to more sensitive sides, touch bordering on ticklish but never too far from just the right kind of stinging. 

“And then?” The prompt comes only after Jack has had his fair share of squirms grinding against his lap, hands slowing down to let the nearly wheezing boy calm down. That however makes him pause for a little while, pondering over his options before he finally chooses the best one, the sharp tip of his gauntlet drawing a quickly reddening line across the flat of Rhys’ stomach, not deep enough to damage anything beyond the top layer of skin but quickly bringing a few specks of blood to the surface. A soft gasp hitches between quickened breaths and it’s like music to Jack’s attentive ears, a nuzzle given to keep his toy placated.

“Sometimes they paint it.” The pads of his fingers drag the crimson over the unmarred skin, idle patterns drawn and shaping into a little nonsensical thing. 

“And…?”

“What do you think candies are made for? They eat it.” Sharp teeth come to sink into the junction between his shoulder and willingly exposed throat, one more ‘and’ threatening to break the remains of Jack’s composure.

It comes, of course it does, and for a little while he entertains himself with the idea of deepening the shallow graze, fingers delving deeper to touch what’s inside. The Sorcerer thinks he can safely chance a guess that the guts coiled underneath the soft skin would feel heavenly against his touch, slippery and velvety, rivaled only by the silky texture of the most delicate petals.

This line of thoughts takes him far enough that he actually does press the tips of his nails into the edge of the wound, pulling apart by a fraction and toying with it.

“Would you be afraid if I took it further?” See, the problem is, that the lower notes into which his voice drops and the alluring promise of -fun- make not only Rhys’ heart stutter but also his own.

“No.” 

“Good boy.” It’s not the time nor place but the Sorcerer makes sure to file that raspy and dreamy agreement for some other day. “You have nothing to fear from me.” While his abilities mostly connect to fire and destruction, closing a nearly superficial cut isn’t much of a challenge, fingers coming to sweep over the flushed skin one more time, tracing over the memory of the most intimate emblem of trust and submission. 

Rhys ends up wrangling a ‘yes’ out of him, a concession to stay for the night and the morning finds the Sorcerer with an octopus grip around his numb arm, the kid still asleep with a blissful expression on his face and a patch of drool beside his parted lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya fuckers did you miss this sleep deprived bean? We're back on schedule, though i can't promise daily updates. But at least i got this part out of me :^)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is wisdom hidden in the complicated patterns of spidery letters, one word after another shaping the definition of power, just waiting to be discovered and used, eager to get out of the confines of the faded ink. It’s not a big secret really. You know that. I know that. That's why I'm sat here banging my forehead against the keyboard, we all decide to grace it with silence

There is wisdom hidden in the complicated patterns of spidery letters, one word after another shaping the definition of power, just waiting to be discovered and used, eager to get out of the confines of the faded ink. It’s not a big secret really. You know that. I know that. And Rhys is only beginning to grasp it as he stumbles across yet another of -the- Books. The ones you talk about in capital letters and stress their articles because that’s how life-changing they are.  
The Book has currently sent the unfortunate boy on a furious crawl across the main courtyard, on all fours and nearly scenting along the ground, his senses, attuned over the last few days, search for little flickers of undiscovered life, prodding at the seemingly barren dust. The Book says that with enough patience and attention one is always bound to find even the tiniest of the seeds, carried along with a gentle gust of wind, laying dormant and waiting for more fertile grounds or an eager apprentice. An eager apprentice who manages to stumble across what he was looking for, gathering a handful of dust into his palms and huddling in the corner where the shadow of the walls hide him from the sun and any potential unwanted attention.  
He wants to surprise his master with the freshly gained knowledge, keeping the secret until he can show off. A slender lick of his powers, a little prompt of his mind and there is something gingerly flourishing in his palms, weak and starved for more, crawling between his fingers to finally curl into a slim stalk and a tender bud which quickly blooms into a quickly wilting flower, nothing exotic, a domestic forget-me-not and he will never forget the spark of pride blooming in his chest in return.  
The barren grounds of the castle’s imminent surroundings aren’t the best place to exercise his newly gained knowledge and the lust for power draws him towards the forest. A cape fixed over his form and two feet swiftly taking him deeper into the sea of green prove to be the right course of action and the lingering scent of life waiting to be discovered, begging to be used, makes Rhys’ head spin.

The Sorcerer pays little mind to his little excursions, grumpy when he dashes back to the castle with grass stricken knees and leaves clinging to his hair, late for their afternoon practice. Fingers tend to none-too gently pry them away, followed with a command to focus harder on what the man is trying to teach him.  
Necromancy doesn’t come easy, one failed attempt after another, the corpse he’s currently working on sluggishly flailing its limbs as Rhys tries to force it to finally -move-.  
The most he has managed so far is one disgruntled undead who refused to obey his command, wandering off with an offended look on its sunken face and a gesture shot in reply to the apprentice’s angry yells to go back, one arm raised and bent at the elbow, hand curled into a fist as the other placed itself in the crook. The Sorcerer nearly rolls over onto the ground, arms clutching his heaving sides and a snigger on his lips, the shambling corpse crumbling down once it reaches the edges of the extent of Rhys’ powers.

The next day he comes up with an idea, brows furrowed and tongue poking from between his lips as he waits for the right opportunity, Jack’s eyes cast upwards as the man keeps counting the lazily rolling clouds, literally anything holding his interest with greater force than the dejected apprentice crouching next to yet another body.  
That’s when Rhys fishes out a pinch of soil from the pouch now strapped to his belt and hidden under the sash, something scavenged from the depths of the forest and a little advantage he’s planning on using. A couple of crumbs land on the corpse, followed with a nudge from his magic and the quickly sprouting vines dive under the skin, unnoticed by the Sorcerer so far. The rotten flesh turns out to be exactly what was needed, roots greedily twisting into it and soaking in all the minerals, the lingering moisture and nutrients. Inquisitive vines weave themselves between the ligaments, wrapped around the bones and strengthening the form where the muscles have decayed.

Jack’s eyes finally snap back to the ground, watching the movement curiously, the seemingly unaffected undead rising to its feet, casually patting the dirt from its clothes and finally presenting itself by turning around, finishing it with an over the top bow. The apprentice is concentrating so hard he forgets to close his mouth, eyes squinted and a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face but he manages to spare a single, self-satisfied smirk towards his master.  
The undead moves in response to Jack’s words and Rhys’ commands, an odd lack of stiffness usually clinging to the freshly risen.  
That, however, doesn’t register with the inexperienced apprentice while at the same time doesn’t fail to escape the Sorcerer’s attention.

“Alright, sugar. If you are doing so well, why won’t you make it -talk-.” The words spark a panicked reaction and Rhys knows he has been busted. His creation looks and acts too advanced to fall into the ‘mute and barely holding together’ category of the weaker undead. The stronger ones, often strung together from different parts of various bodies and pieces of armour with utmost care, retained their ability to speak, even if they mostly repeated the necromancer’s words, the only sounds they consciously made being little hisses or growls.

The jaw falls slack before snapping back in place, much like that of a puppet, teeth rattling and joining a high pitched voice.

“Yes. It is I. The corpse. Talking.” Rhys tries to keep his lips as still as he can, words coming out stuttered and he instantly grows to regret discarding the book on ventriloquy a couple of months ago.

The Sorcerer turns a little blue in the face and Rhys huddles down.

In the end he gets a clip around the head and an annoyed tug to his ear.

“Spit it out dum dum. What did you do?”

All may not be lost since he finally gets the chance to show off his newly acquired knowledge, maybe a little bit earlier than he has planned but anything is better than ending up turned again into a rodent.

The vines coil in on themselves, sapping whatever moisture remained in the rotten flesh, before bursting out, putrid scraps of skin flying in every direction and the Sorcerer is presented with a column of twisted ropes, constantly moving and expanding, growing out extra stalks. One of said stalks, quickly turning into a twig and then a branch, extends towards the stupefied man, tapered at the end and sprouting a single stem tipped with a quivering bud. It flares open, blue petals shimmering in the slowly setting sun, a flower that has no name yet, brought to life by Rhys’ over-excited imagination.

The boy blushes the brightest shade of red and produces an even brighter smile, eyes crinkled in the corners, sat on the ground with his ass firmly planted down as he stares up at the Sorcerer, watching him hesitantly snap the stem and bring the flower for a closer inspection.

That happy smile immediately turns into a sulk when the innocent plant ends up crumbled in a crushing grasp and Jack’s nostrils flare.

“Stupid child.” Two dark tendrils shoot up from the shadows pooled around the man’s feet, latching onto Rhys’ throat and dragging him up and closer till he comes face to face with one hella pissed Sorcerer. “Fumbling in ignorance, disturbing forces that should be left untouched.” He seems to be nearly seething, eyebrows pulled down into a pinched frown and lips curled over sharp canines. “Beyond my fucking grasp.” That last part is muttered and the boy only catches it because his whole attention is centered on the man before him.

“Are you… envious?” A slow, deliberate blink comes in reply and Rhys wants to shove a whole foot down his throat and die out of embarrassment. When will he learn to hold his tongue back?

“As if…” He is. He is and he currently is trying to swallow his pride, choking on it before eventually giving up and spitting it out with some more growls.

The grip around Rhys’ neck tightens but he chooses to keep his flailing to a minimum, face flushed and a passive glance shot from under lowered lashes. By now he knows how to work around Jack’s frequent bursts of anger, a tilt of his neck to expose his throat or a small plea forming on his lips easily bringing the raging man back to some semblance of serenity. It helps that the boy usually delivers just as much thrill from all that grovelling as the receiver of his actions.

“Jack…” Choked out as his words are, they finally manage to snap the other man out of his monologue, Jack going into great details about how he -isn’t- envious and how he can have anything and everything at the beck and call of his immeasurable powers. Another call of his name has him finally releasing the chokehold, the boy dropping to his feet with a sigh. He wastes no time before squirming closer back to the other man, knees slightly bent to at least not tower over him and hands over one fluffed up chest. “Jack…” he makes sure to drawl the word out as much as he can, having picked up on the positive if sometimes baffling reaction it would often spark in return, “...’s fine. Now you command it too, it’s yours. As am I. Just another thing to add to your arsenal.”

The Sorcerer stares at him with wide eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows back whatever he wanted to say. Rhys can never make heads nor tails of the odd restrained stated into which the other man sometimes falls, the boy himself consumed by insane envy of the Sorcerer’s powers and quite frankly, he’s positive that in his place, -he- wouldn’t deny himself anything. Whatever it is that has the man curling his fists and taking short, clipped breaths through his nose is of little concern to the boy.  
On the other hand. If Jack restraining himself means having his spine left intact after every time he accidentally steps on the man’s toes, despite the yelled threats, Rhys can live with that. No problem.

-II-

Necromancy ‘classes’ end up suspended, the boy left to his own devices as he happily keeps prancing about the forest and experimenting with his little creations feeding on the corpses, slowly working his way through a considerable portion of the Sorcerer’s undead army.  
By the end of the month, a thick layer of vine creepers covers the west wall and Jack has to welcome every morning with a few grunted words of praise as he is eagerly presented with one after another ever more intricate design of multicoloured petals and stalks.  
Some of the flowers placed in a glass vase in his study room start bouts of furious sneezing and end up flung through the window. The Sorcerer needs to conjure something extra and most likely sweet to raise the morale of his servant after each and every such accident, two echoes of sniffles shared between them, of different origin but equally annoying, even as Jack reaches his hand out to give a nonchalant pet to the ruffled hair but changes his mind halfway through, thumb sweeping over the corner of quirked lips, picking up a crumble of icing before bringing it to his own mouth.

Rhys likes those quiet moments of shared peace between the two of them best, despite not being quite able to place the glimmer in Jack’s eyes anywhere concrete, eventually deeming it as something ultimately harmless.

He likes it almost just as much as the time he spends in the forest, its inhabitants quickly growing accustomed to his presence, all the more when he manages to coax a family of skittish hares out of their hiding place and later feeds them to a couple of pups, adult wolves quickly joining in on the feast.

So it comes as a no surprise that a high pitched shriek has him angrily storming down a path forged by countless paws, in search of it source. The source turns out to be a human, their species becoming loathsome over the years of seclusion, clinging to a branch and viciously waving a short sword at a couple of beasts circling around an old oak.

“Stop that! You are disturbing the peace of this place.” His arms come to cross over his chest, the boy ignoring a friendly bump of a damp nose pressing to his thigh as one of the wolves greets him. “Just drop down and let them have their meal.”

“Shut up!” She, a girl he quickly figures out, shoots him an angry snarl, cautious of the stranger who so easily walked among the wildlife. “Help me you stuck up cunt.” It’s added after a short while and Rhys would be offended if he hadn’t grown numb to any and all insults human tongue could produce in his time time spent with the Sorcerer.

“What am I getting out of it?” He knows what he could ask for, an old law he has been taught about, something customary asked in return for offering one’s magic to help the mortals. Sometimes he likes to think he has transcended his own fragility, Jack’s attitude clearly rubbing off on him.

“What do you want? Anything as long as you call them off.” She hisses, clutching the branch tighter.

“I do not command them. But I could try to make them give up on straight up devouring your stupid human ass in return for one thing you do not expect but will find upon safely returning home. How does that sound?”

After some more flailing and insults chucked his way, the girl concedes and the wolves disappear into the forest with a promise of a treat that will come their way soon.

“You are such a jerk.”

“Yeah. Call me Rhys.” A toothy grin is shot her way, Sasha her name is, the name given only after he helps her down the tree. “I’m expecting to meet you here tomorrow with my reward.”

-II-

His reward turns out to be a mangled piece of cake, missing a few bites and Sasha explains that initially, she wanted to disregard their agreement but somehow the cake turned out spoiled so whatever. He can have it.

Rhys thinks it doesn’t taste half bad, quickly shoveling it into his mouth and half heartedly listening to the story of how her sister wanted to throw a small surprise party for her twentieth birthday. Surprise parties sound nice especially to someone whose only surprise in life is getting suddenly turned into one pathetic life form or another.

She shows up again the next day too, finding him practicing his magic and watching it with round eyes, completely enthralled by how small flowers quickly bloomed around the clearing, picking one of them and to Rhys’ absolute delight, tucking it behind her ear instead of crushing it in her grasp.

It’s pleasant to talk to someone who’s not perpetually grumpy or borderline murderous or, worst case scenario, giddy with every little cattiness committed against his apprentice, and the age difference feels irrelevant, what with the Sorcerer treating him like a spoiled brat anyway.

-II-

A billow of smoke curls and dips between the trees, lurching forward in its anger, darting between the bushes and climbing over obstacles. The Sorcerer is positively seething, having found out that his apprentice was having… what exactly? An affair? A, how disgusting, friend? Well there definitely was -someone-, a secret withheld from the very man who put food on his plate and provided shelter during long stormy nights. Following the faint trace of the bond, he easily finds them, sat way too close together in a clearing amongst old oaks, sun seeping through the canopy of the forest and casting a gentle glimmer on the surroundings.  
A simple town dweller, the rage nearly blinds him at the realization, her fingers weaving together stems of the flowers she picks, majority of them a familiar burst of colour that could only be brought to life by Rhys’ magic. This ungrateful little shit, strutting about the place like he owned it, wasting his potential and trying to engage with a -peasant-. All the while he had the option of choosing Jack, -the- Handsome Sorcerer, and all the emotional baggage and repressed sexual tension that came with staying true to his master.  
Sooty mist finally comes to a halt, wave after wave toppling over itself and coiling in one place, just at the edges of the little clearing and just outside of the hearing range. Not his though, oh no, he can perfectly hear the tinkly tones of her words and Rhys’ rasp that has no right dropping into softer tones the way it currently does. Not when addressing anyone but the Sorcerer himself or rather, not at all since, given free choice, he’d most likely love to hear either screams or half-choked moans.

She’s trying to teach him something, hands bumping and heads bowed together and the Sorcerer nearly goes down there and there, slain by the abhorrent trill of two intermingling laughs.

Rhys blushes, she asks about his first kiss and Jack retches. Or maybe it happens in a different order, who cares, Jack certainly doesn’t, eyes rolling back so far he can see the inside of his skull at the evasive answer and a question bounced back.  
She hasn’t, not yet anyway and he wonders if his apprentice will have the guts to try that smooth move of his, what with the boy’s penchant for eagerly if carelessly slamming his face into someone else’s and calling it kissing. Jack’s face throbs at the memory of the headbutt he has once received and he grows that fraction more annoyed.  
Preferably, he would like to chalk his next action to his own (if rather non-existent) good will and saving his disgrace of an apprentice from embarrassing both of them, a mental note that he should finally add courting classes to Rhys’ schedule pushed to the back of his attention, and not that uncomfortable knot twisting in the pit of his stomach.  
The smoke lazily tumbles to the ground, briefly spreading out and extinguishing a couple of offending daisies in its wake, before pulling back in on itself and rising into a twisted curl, taking in on a menacing shape. A surprised yelp is the only response to his delighted chuckle, studded boots stamping out another irritating life-form as he crosses the distance, coming in at full speed, tails of his coat furiously flapping behind him and lips turned up into an ominous snarl.

“Well, well well, what have we here.” Words nearly drip with venom and barely contained smugness, Jack’s brain tuning out the sarcastic voice making fun of his own pettiness.

“Jack!” They both leap to their feet, his apprentice dropping into a more defensive stance and hunching his shoulders slightly as if expecting punishment. Good, that’s one thing the Sorcerer can tick off his list of things that needed to happen. The girl however, instead of cowering in fear as he has expected, meets him halfway, one accusatory finger pointing in his direction and ready to jab at his chest.

“What the hell are you?” Feisty. Nice, Jack thinks, an even more shit-eating smirk pulling his lips apart and threatening to nearly split his face in half. The more fight they have in them, the more satisfying breaking them is.

“I, child, am the remedy to that ailment you seem to be having.”

Rhys tries to interject, panicked over what the Sorcerer will do but even in his wildest fantasies he could not predict -that-.  
Armoured fingers wrap around the wrist connected to that accusatory pointer, a forceful tug given and as his other hand lands on the small of her back, Jack leaning forward and forcing the girl to bend backwards, two pairs of lips interconnect, the touch breaking after less than a second with a loud smack.  
Ah but the Sorcerer loves taking most cherished things from people, his grip relenting instantly and the tip of his tongue runs over the lips curled into the nastiest grin he can muster.  
It doesn’t even go away when he gets a punch to the face and a kick to the shin  
It, however, dissipates slightly at the punch to his guts, something from the inside not outside, making him cock his head slightly, one hand coming up to scratch at the base of his horn as he tries to place the odd familiarity of it, somewhere between the scent of dried out leaves and damp moss, and wafts of ozone.

“You asshole!” His apprentice sounds more distressed than actually pissed off, fists tightly curled as he tells the girl, Sasha he calls her, to make a break for it. Jack can’t be bothered to go after her, too tangled in the slowly building feeling inside of him, making his chest constrict and fanning at the echo of a flame, his but not really his, there but not entirely, something going back and forth between him and… between him and Rhys who’s now slowly advancing.  
What started as maybe a twinge of vengeance, a need to get back at him for horsing around, has dashed along the bond connecting them, duplicated in the pits of the Sorcerer’s guts before bouncing back, and keeping on going in a see-saw motion. In a way it’s like positioning two mirrors in front of one another, the image replicated and going on forever, smaller with every repetition, except in this case it keeps getting bigger, amplified with each loop.  
He might have claimed Rhys’ revenge as his own but it works both ways, little to no choice given for Jack to pick the receiver of this powerful force, simply acting as a catalizator and hoping for some fun as he goes about nudging the boy into committing all the more heinous acts.  
This time however, and it’s not something he would have expected from his generally fairly docile apprentice, that anger is directed at him, sustained and then bolstered by his own greed.  
Looks like Jack will be getting a taste of his own medicine, ducking in the nick of a time to dodge a fist aimed at his face, the bewildered look in Rhys’ eyes clearly showing that he is just as confused at the sudden torrent of fire beginning to build in him. A strong shove of his own powers has the boy stumbling back, the Sorcerer instantly growing enraged with each passing second that someone, some -fucker-, dared to attack him, the lines shaping who he -is- and what drives him, vanishing, despite his mental claws desperately latched onto the edges of his being, the distinction between two individual minds blurring.  
He can only counter a thick rope of tightly wound vines because he knew it was coming, he, -they- now, have brought it to life themselves and it’s such a strange feeling, making everything come to a brief still as their thoughts scatter, trying to define the oddity of being able to command a life force, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Jack has never realized, or at least never was able to tap into, the potential hidden beneath the underbush, little eager sparks of life nearly bouncing at the prospect of becoming something grander, a destructive force now springing to life from the ground about them.  
The Sorcerer wavers, their eyes watching as he nearly trembles when some of his powers are seeped away, crashing into them like a dragon diving from the sky, death and life conflicting in their nature and thrashing about their shared body. But even then, their opponent and the source of anguish still fights back, a nearly instinctual drive to protect his existence, Jack picking up glimpses of himself amongst this mess, trying to piece his identity back together and failing as wave after crashing wave, pure anger sweeps him under. The ground under their feet becomes alive, a rupture in the presence and a splinter of something crawling from another dimension to fill it, more vicious vines creeping about, backing slightly with a hiss as the tendrils of their adversary’s powers madly lash forward to swat them away.  
It’s not a mirror this time, which gives them a brief eyeful of the situation, the static energy fluffing up usually slicked back hair, the insane glow of one purplish iris and that trademark curl of hungry lips, teeth shown in the snarl that tended to favour a different face. They can see, and feel, clawed fingers repeatedly curling and uncurling, eager to grab onto that spiteful neck and snap it, to dive under the skin and rip and tear, the sheer bloodlust enticing as much dread as it does need.  
The sight is gone when Jack succumbs to that pure want again, once more losing the connection linking him back to his body and they dash forward, followed by the manifestation of their powers, quickly strengthened by the intermingling tendrils they claim for themselves, the remains of the Sorcerer’s powers stolen by the parasite and right then and there, they crash into nothing but a man, stripped of his defenses and listlessly toppling back until two bodies land with a loud crack on the ground. The angrily swirling mass of vines and black coils, still fighting among itself but also fighting against everything else, dives into the ground, bursting out again just on the opposite sides of their prey’s chest and wrapping about his arms and then, midsection. They give an experimental squeeze, the strangled moan, not the one they wanted to hear before, still satisfying.  
The knowledge as to where to strike first doesn’t come from the mind they are occupying right now, nor does it come from the malicious being making the clawed hand shoot forward, deceptively gently skirting its fingers along the curl of a pitch-black horn first before snapping it. It came from the anticipation of a howl that they got in return, from the overwhelming scent of fear they have picked up the moment the third element of this jumble decided to pitch in new ideas, reeling back momentarily before diving straight into it again.  
Another howl tears the silence as some shreds of the pain they have inflicted carry back through the bond and to the old owner of the body they are decimating right now, confusion making clawed fingers come down to roughly press over opened mouth, not their own but in a way feeling like they belong to at least a part of them, their shared consciousness unable to figure out where the noise came from. Through burning pain, fingers of their other hand skimming along the nothingness at the top of their head and looking for the source of it but drawing blank, another feeling pushes to the fore of their attention, soft skin and the mist of a rapid breath, bringing back hazy memories of a bone deep satisfaction and an insatiable lust for control, coming from two different sources, now twined together but tinging their thoughts with different hues.  
What if they were to take it one step further, push between the lips and maybe tear the tongue out, both to satisfy their curiosity and the still bubbling desire for revenge? What they follow through with however, is just the first part of their plan, claws unceremoniously shoved deeper, the familiarity of the damp heat mixing with the unfamiliarity of how -good- it feels. This makes the bindings fastening the three beings together waver, no longer powered by the sheer need for vengeance as the feeling becomes slowly replaced by something else, attention scattered and in need of a new point of focus.  
Their, Rhys’, Jack’s attention lazily moves to trace the movement of a ladybug flying nearby, eyebrows knit in concentration and a childlike wonder taking over. The insect is completely unaffected by the life and death situation happening next to it, so fragile and insignificant that the simplest swat of one of the vines could crush it.  
Driven by the action set in motion, Jack keeps his eyes trained on the seven dots against the brightly red carapace before realizing he -has- eyes that are his own and then the sensations finally catch up to him, as do his powers, sluggishly crawling back and curling in the safety of the shadow he casts. There is pain, both of his arms broken, ribs probably busted too and forcing him to gulp air in short, controlled inhales, around the fingers still lodged in his throat. The scowl making his eyebrows furrow, pulls at the skin of his forehead, another surge of agony twisting into a slowly forming headache. It’s fine, he thinks, his broken horn will regrow with time, bones will mend and the most important part is that he has made it alive, bruised, battered and feeling weaker than he has had in ages but alive nonetheless.  
Fuck, but he’s pissed off.

-II-

The ladybug lands on a now completely motionless vine with little regard for its surroundings or the origin of its resting place, startled when a couple of flowers suddenly burst into a full bloom and Rhys wishes he could just fly away like it did, something at the back of his mind telling him that he won’t like coming back to reality. The reality reaches out to him and forcefully drags him back in form of teeth biting down on his hand, he’s reluctant to pull back at first, the tremble of muscles constricting against the pads of his fingers, forcing the claws to dig deeper, infinitely absorbing, heartbeat jump started into a frantic thud, too big for his chest, the sound of it drowning out everything else. Another bite and an angry grumble has his fingers slowly coming away, slicked with spit and blood alike, dragged over the root, back, front and then the blade of the Sorcerer’s tongue, one last pass of sharp claws given along the tip.

“Get. Off. Me.” The words are hissed and rough from the damage he has inflicted but do nothing to make him budge, the boy currently finding himself straddling his would-be victim. He has to swallow, throat dry and tongue refusing to cooperate, curling around the shape of a name finally making it past his lips.

“Jack.” The muscles around his mouth hurt, pulled into a snarl for so long, only now gradually beginning to relax. He doesn’t want to get off of the other man, he doesn’t want to let go of him, the only effort he makes is to retract the vines, head still swimming from the overstimulation and from having to accommodate for more than one being.  
The fear of rejection bursts anew, creeping up along his spine before settling down in the trembling limbs, trembling lips and the sudden coldness in his chest. His fingers, those tipped in sharp claws and those tipped in blunt fingernails curl into the front of the Sorcerer’s shirt and he slumps down, tears instantly brimming in his eyes and spilling over at the sorry state he has left the other in. The name is repeated, over and over again, interjected with apologies and sobs as if it could change anything. A shove from one, weakened tendril comes, light enough that it feels more like a caress, only managing to make him scoot a little bit lower, finding hardness pressing against the curve of his ass and bringing his attention to the slowly dwindling down hardness in his own pants. He has little care for where it came from, glad that it was going away, not stopping him in the least from trying to press his face into Jack’s front, more mumbled and semi-coherent words following.

“Rhys.” Hopefully, if he ignores him for long enough, the Sorcerer’s anger will simmer down and maybe he’ll find it in himself to forgive his apprentice, not the most likely outcome but one he wishes for with all of his might, sobs turning into a full blown hysteria. “RHYS!” That’s hardly enough to bring him back from the brink of total panic but enough to make him pause momentarily, eyes tightly squeezed as he tries to reign in the tremors shaking his whole body. “Rhys. Sugar. Ribs. Hurt.” A couple more moments spared for the crying and he’s finally pulling back, grinding his fists into the sockets of his eyes, rubbing away tears and uncertainty, before finally looking down with a completely dejected expression, head hanging low and shoulders slumped.

There comes another prompt to get up, softer this time, and as he worries his lip between teeth, Rhys also thinks he has never seen the Sorcerer this exhausted and vulnerable, guilt stacking in him until no other feeling remains.  
Eventually he follows the command, tired himself and with mind too scrambled to make any decisions of his own, simply falling in line and falling into the safety of the voice he knows so well, slowly regaining its usual strength despite still tethering on a more subdued side.

Bones crack, sluggishly snapping back in place and mending themselves and as he helps the other man to his feet, heavy weight leans over him, an arm over Rhys’ shoulders and an arm around Jack’s waist. A voice, lacking in its usual venom, hisses into his ear that ‘he’ll be dealt with once they are back home’ but the only word that register with his exhausted brain is ‘home’ and that brings a shy bloom of soothing warmth to his chest, quiet agreement murmured in return.

-II-

Half expecting to be sent down to the dungeons for the night, the apprentice is surprised when he ends up dragged to his master’s chamber, wrapped in a crushing grip and he thinks that might be the retribution placed upon him, an eye for an eye or rather broken ribs for broken ribs.  
He says nothing in response to the words growled into his ear, reminding him of his place, of who owned him, where he belonged. Perhaps they should incite fear, but he hasn’t got any left in him, craving the safety that came with knowing the Sorcerer still desired him at his side, even if it meant surrendering himself completely.

Tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow, Rhys will try to figure out what to do about Sasha but right now, every other thought in his mind is replaced with the calming scent of Jack’s magic and the arms around him and in a way, he knows that’s how the man likes him best, all tangled up in him, fading back and willingly choking on his own free will as he lets go of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POSE DRAMATICALLY IF YOU'VE CAUGHT ALL THE DUMB REFERENCES :^)  
> super thanks to Hartlynk for pitching in a couple ideas, i'll make sure to include the rest of them in the next chapter!  
> super thanks to my patient beta!


	10. Chapter 10

Jack spends the night wide awake, letting his powers work away at the damage done to his body and with nose tucked into the mop of messy hair.  
Six times. Six is exactly how many times his hands move to wrap themselves around a slender neck.

First time the straining muscles have him abandon the task, lingering ache in his body quickly wiping the idea away from his mind.

Second time his movement makes Rhys stir in his sleep, fingers curling tighter into his sweater, effectively rendering him clueless as to how he’s going to later pry those hands away once rigor mortis settles in.

Third time is special because he notices there is a couple of stray twigs in the boy’s hair so after a short consideration, Jack picks them out. After all, if his apprentice was to start struggling, they could get lost in the bedding and later he could find himself with something disturbing his rest.

Fourth time he remembers there won’t be anyone to sweep the floors.

Fifth time he starts exerting more pressure but then the quiet pitter patter of rain against the window makes him wistful and that’s not a good mood for strangling someone.

Sixth time he stops making excuses and just lets his hands linger, feeling the fluttering pulse against the pads of his fingers.

Six times he changes his mind. A war waged in his head, between the rational and the irrational, between making sure there will be no competition, no one to disobey him and the still very much present lust for the power currently lulled into deeper slumber together with its owner. He’s after the Warrior but seeing how much just a sliver of the parasite’s powers enhanced a mere mortal, it makes him go nearly blind and deaf at the very thought of taking it for himself.   
Jack argues with himself, as viciously as he has ever argued with anyone, weighing the pros and the cons and reaching no conclusion.

Eventually, the decision is made for him, sun beginning to stream through the tall window and the body next to his squirms as it starts the slow process of waking up. Whatever more apologies Rhys had coming once he cracked his eyes open, gaze instantly flicking up to the broken off horn, are stifled nearly instantly, hands rolling him over non too gently before tucking against a broad chest and the Sorcerer finally falls asleep, with great offence and a grumble on his lips.

Later he will find himself with his arms empty, a daffodil on the bedside and a hot bath waiting for him. A good place to start making up to the Handsome Sorcerer if you were to ask Jack. He decides to leave figuring out how to ensure the situation will not repeat itself for some other day.

“Why did you do that?” It had to come up, sooner or later, Rhys having finally worked up the courage, huddled in the far end of the bathing chamber and refusing to meet his master’s eyes.

“Stop getting your knickers in a twist, sugar. I was just fucking with you. Didn’t know you were gonna blow up like that.” Somehow, he feels insulted that his apprentice is trying to turn the situation around and shift the blame onto him. Somehow, he feels even more offended at the reply he gets, whispered as it is but it nearly thunders with the weight it carries, the bar of soap he’s been idly playing with slipping from his hands.

“Why would you fuck with me when you could just -fuck- me?” Still no eye contact so Jack makes it extra loud and splashy as he emerges from the water to slowly and deliberately lean down and pick up the soap, water dripping all over the floor, his body pleasantly warmed and relaxed, with bruises still purplish but on the verge of turning green. With a thoughtful hum, he turns the bar in his hands, letting the silence linger for a couple of more seconds, just so that blithering idiot grasps the whole scope of it.

“I’m giving you to the count of three before I come after you to wash that filthy mouth of yours.”

Rhys flees as if he had all seven devils chasing him, and truth to be told, that’s not entirely untrue.

-II-

As per usual, he has his apprentice hot on his heels, nearly scraping them raw with every misstep he takes as they cut through the corridors. Their destination, a large chamber filled with dust dancing in the sun lazily streaming through tall windows, is full of objects covered with linen, a stash of various artifacts the Sorcerer has accumulated over the centuries. A strict order not to touch anything is ignored even before Jack is halfway through the room, followed with a loud gasp, full of awe and appreciation.

“Hello beautiful!” The apprentice is currently clutching a bundle of fabric and staring at one thing Jack doesn’t mind showing him anyway so, he figures, there is no harm in sharing the story behind this particular item. Something he’ll later grow to regret.

“Ah, that would be the Queen. I’ve been meaning to get you two acquainted a while ago.” 

“The Queen?” A curious glance is shot his way, clawed fingers coming up to card through a luscious mane, dulled with years and tangled from the misuse Jack has put it through a couple of times.

“That’s right. The previous owner of this castle. Had to place a curse on her once I took reign of the place.”

“Is she… a real, -real- unicorn?” 

“As real as it gets, sugar. Grew tired at one point, of knights coming to break the spell and free her, so I had her taxidermied. Cleaner that way.” His chest swells at the star-struck gaze he receives and the Sorcerer thinks he will never grow tired of the utter admiration his misdeeds earn from his apprentice, the boy is truly a wonder. “Come, we’re not here for her today.” 

Rhys parts with the stuffed animal with a wistful sigh and a murmured promise to ‘come back for you pretty’, one which has him stifling a snigger despite the creepy undertone. 

Pulling down the material covering a tall, rectangular flat object sends more dust wafting through the air and makes both of them break into a bout of sneezes. 

“Strip.” A clipped command has the boy cocking his head but he follows it without any questions as Jack watches his reflection struggle with the shoes in the mirror. Quite the fancy thing he has here, worth three times its weight in gold, glass and silver immaculately polished and the frame is made of intricate patterns, gold vines sneaking around and weaving along the edges. Only once his apprentice joins him at his side, shivering slightly in the cool air and with arms crossed over his chest, resigned to give up on any shreds of modesty, does Jack finally bring his attention to the boy, eyes fixed on the reflection of a mismatched pair, armoured hand coming to rest at the small of his back. The contrast of his hot skin and the coolness of the metal claws sends a most delightful tremble across the body next to him, a crooked smirk blooming on the Sorcerer’s lips.

“Tell me child. What do you see?” That brings a thoughtful hum, some feet shuffling against the stone floor and more twitches.

“Well. It’s a mirror what do you expect me to say? I can see you and me. And what’s behind us.” The previously gentle touch, claw tips skirting over the soft skin turn into a quick drag along the boy’s spine until an unyielding grip locks at the back of his neck, dragging him closer till Jack can press his face into the mirror. It has to be another shade of cold as it sparks a yelp and a displeased grumble.

“Look closer then. I want a detailed description.” The Sorcerer pulls away, taking a couple of steps back, arms coming up to mirror Rhys’ gesture and he settles for simply observing the boy through half-lidded eyes.

“Fine.” He could stand for his apprentice to drop that offended undertone from his voice, “I can see a young… dashing and very good looking man.” Hands come up to smooth back a couple of stray strands of hair, “Nice hair,” he turns around, looking over his shoulder and staring back the length of his body, palms nonchalantly patting over his backside, “lovely assets,” another turn and he straightens up, muscles pulled taut and chest straining with how much he tries to puff it out, “would make maidens swoon left and right.” Rhys finishes with an impish smirk, eyes flicking to meet Jack’s. 

No matter how badly the Sorcerer’s own over-bloated ego has rubbed off on his apprentice, the boy still has years upon years until he can even reach the levels of self-adoration his master has climbed and it becomes even more obvious as the man tugs him closer, one arm coming around and grazing the smooth skin of his waist. Jack makes sure to dip him lower, chest to chest, backs arched in two parallel curves and one thigh pushed between Rhys’ to maintain the balance.

“Accurate little one. I particularly loved the ‘swooning part’.” Just to makes his point clear, the grip is released before he catches the dropping body again, the Sorcerer again pressed flush against the slightly quivering body and he keeps on watching the slowly creeping redness blooming over the boy’s face and chest, the way he worries his lower lip between the teeth drawing the attention of two golden eyes, slanted with the smirk curling his lips. “But enough about me, try again and this time describe -yourself-.”

“Just did…” He can feel eyes lazily trailing over his face, taking in the enraged expression on the Sorcerer’s face and he’s ready to drop this mouthy thing when fingers move to fist into the front of his shirt, a stumble following as he needs to slightly re-adjust to compensate for the shift. Mismatched eyes leave their current point of focus to move from Jack’s lips back to the mirror, slowly taking stock of the reflection. “Oh wait, I can also see an old, sad man shamelessly groping this poor, charming lad.”

Jack’s reaction isn’t nearly as violent or rash as it could be anticipated, a slow, deliberate inhale, air rushing through his nose to fill the swelling chest, the movement rustling his clothes against the body in his arms and he ever so gently straightens up, hands moving to unclench the fingers holding onto his front. One step taken back and the calm, collected look he shoots his apprentice has the boy freezing on spot, eyes turning wide and nervously following every move he makes. Then and only then, once the anticipation to his actions has built, does Jack act, sending his powers, intangible and barely there for now, dashing along the bond linking them, forcing their way into the boy’s head and squirming about until they occupy the majority of his mind, the surprised feedback he gets bringing back that blood-thirsty smirk to his lips. It’s easy to command Rhys’ own powers this way, enough to subdue the parasite on a regular day with just a brush along the connection but with the way he’s shoving him away and taking over control, a strip of red silk virtually dances at his barest thought. The ribbon springs from the pile of clothing, twining itself around two arms now tugged at the small of the boy’s back, reinforced with enough magic that there is no chance of snapping even as it digs into the flesh, the restrains reaching up to Rhys’ elbows and pulling his shoulders back at a harsh angle. 

The Sorcerer lazily strolls closer, cocksure as always, lack of any defenses raised from the parasite itself easily tipping him that it did not feel endangered, ergo, neither did Rhys, despite his slightly panicked expression. A hand snaking from behind and resting over the tattooed throat has him bending backwards, body once again arched back and leaning against the man at his back. Jack turns them towards the mirror, watching his own eyes glimmer, chin coming to rest over the boy’s shoulder and he lazily noses along the shell of his ear, keeping his real intent up in the air for a precious couple of more moments. 

“Careful, sugar.” A short stinging bite, a hitch of breath and armored fingers dig that fraction deeper into the soft flesh of Rhys’ side. “I wanted to teach you something new today but I can withdraw the offer any time if you keep misbehaving.” Jack genuinely decides to attribute his apprentice’s next words to a lack of blood in his brain, seeing as a good portion of it has drained lower, instead of simple stupidity. No one could be -this- stupid to tempt the annoyed Sorcerer.

“Whatever it is, it sure as hell ain’t modesty…” 

“Silly thing. Shapeshifting.” And just to exact -some- sort of punishment, before retreating his powers from the boy’s mind, the Sorcerer lets the red fabric slip from the bruised flesh of his arms and tangle around two ankles as he gives a light shove, watching his unfortunate apprentice trip over. “Thing is, shapeshifting is silly easy, many have fallen victim to its simplicity. Returning to your original shape, that’s where the difficulty lays. So I’m thinking, I’ll give you a couple of hours to let you burn every small detail of your body into your brain before we give it a shot.”

Whatever reckless mood Rhys has been in before, evaporates at the first mention of new powers, two hungry eyes, brimming with excitement, stare at his master as he scrambles on the floor. He nearly bounces back to his feet, trotting closer to the mirror to instantly fix his gaze onto the reflection. 

“You better count every single hair, sugar. You wouldn’t want to hear how badly it went for those who disregarded the warnings. I’ll see you in the evening for some questioning so start building up your vocabulary, the test will be very… thorough.” Jack is already turning on his heel when another movement catches his attention, one hand raised high in the air and a fierce expression on the boy’s face, eyes burning and lips pursed. “What?”

“Will the questions be easy?”

An ugly snort and an arrogant ‘of course not’ come as a reply and Rhys is finally left to his ‘study’.

-II-

The Sorcerer can’t deny himself the dubious pleasure of peeking through the eye to check Rhys’ progress every now and then, the apprentice quickly picking up on being spied on, sat on the floor and intently examining the sole of his foot or caught counting the shallow wrinkles beginning to stack around the corners of his eyes. Finally Jack gets told off and Rhys gets informed that he won’t be getting any dinner if he doesn’t reign his tongue in. Which, all in all is an upgrade considering that he’s more used to hearing that he’ll have his tongue ripped out so the boy takes it as a good sign of his master’s more acceptable mood. 

Turns out the source of Jack’s mighty fine mood laid in the prospect of dragging his apprentice through a thousand and one in-depth questions, ranging from the number of moles on his back to strangely detailed descriptions of his toenails. The man doesn’t seem to be satisfied however and Rhys needs to repeat the procedure the next day, and the day after that, quickly growing bored of staring at the reflection and wandering around the room until the Sorcerer storms through the door, threatening to cancel the deal if he kept on doing that.

By the fourth day, the apprentice recites with unwavering certainty the exact amount of hairs he has on his forearm, shows accurate length of his eyelashes between his forefinger and thumb, describes in great detail the hues of his mismatched eyes, the dimples above his backside needing even more explanation, and shares a couple more embarrassing features of his body, his master finally satisfied.

After that, come books, and while Rhys is genuinely enthusiastic about them, the ones pertaining human anatomy have him nodding off, prompting the Sorcerer to promise that if he doesn’t concentrate and reach inside of himself with his mind to locate this or that sinew, -he- will reach inside of the boy himself and rip his guts out so he could get a better look.   
It’s pure torture, minutes spent bowed over the old pages stretching into countless hours and the only uplifting thing that happens in the week that follows is the argument he gets into with the Sorcerer, winning it if only because the man couldn’t bring himself to care beyond squabbling for the squabble’s sake. 

Rhys wins and the stuffed unicorn joins the, now shared, study room, the boy propping it against the wall to get some back support, legs swung over one side, hand lovingly carding through the lush mane and a book on his lap.

His first attempt doesn’t go as smoothly as he has anticipated, his form melting into a billow of dark smoke, quickly pouring onto the ground into a sad puddle amidst which lay a couple of teeth, an elbow and a few assorted bones he forgot about. Jack, after he’s finished howling with laughter, needs to help him put himself back together, checking twice over if nothing has been misplaced. Beside his eyes, Rhys going nearly cross-eyed at the scrambled feedback until the Sorcerer sighs and fixes that too, everything seems to be more or less fine even though he still needs a small pick-me-up by the end of the day, a quiet evening with a book of his own choosing, fire crackling in the hearth and something extra sweet leaving crumbs on the front of his shirt.

-II-

Another week, a couple more ‘accidents’ and a good bunch of scrolls on ornithology which have the apprentice furrowing his brows but thumbing through without much complaining, precede the final test, Jack taking them this time up to the tallest tower, through the falconry inhabited by the Sorcerer’s messengers and spies, a motley assembly of risen birds and bats, and up to the narrow battlement at the roof. 

“Look my apprentice.” A sweeping gesture encompasses the landscape before them, a shadow cast by the steep mountains on the west bathing the valley where the castle stood tall in the darkness and the miles of the forest stretching before them. It thinned out towards the north, a road leading to human settlements. “Can you feel my powers?” Rhys’ eyes close slowly, the boy reaching out to prod at the traces of the Sorcerer’s might, weaved between the stone and trees alike, a half faded footsteps of the powerful man’s presence, he gives a simple nod, relaxing into the hand placed at the small of his back, a gentle gust of wind ruffling their hair.  
“Everywhere that darkness touches, is my domain. Kings come and fall, the royalty mere subjects to the currents of fate and destiny,” Jack is by now rubbing gentle circles over his back, his voice dropping into a lower pitch, the same he reserved for occasional storytelling, effectively putting his apprentice into a more subdued, calmer state, “but power is forever. I’d say that one day, when the Sun had risen again to burn me down, it could be yours, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yeah, Jack. This will forever be yours. You are forever.” There is not an ounce of hesitation, no underlying claim to the Sorcerer’s throne, admiration and jealousy, yes, but no real threat and that's exactly what he wanted, what he needed to hear, the soothing certainty and pure subjugation, a willing thrall in his hands.

“So are you. Can you do something for me, sugar?” As much as the tone of the conversation affects the both of them, there was a purpose that brought them here, something else beyond calming Jack’s nerves and sightseeing. He continues after a soft ‘mh?’ prompts him to keep talking. “Can you think back to that book on birds?” A nod, languid and obedient comes before the Sorcerer finally acts, the hand previously resting gently over Rhys’ lower back presses harder, hard enough to send the boy toppling over the low wall and he plummets towards the ground. Jack hardly finds it in himself to spare another glance, the echo of a surprised howl bouncing off of the walls.

A flutter of furiously beating wings, fluff and annoyed peeps bumps into his face a couple of seconds later, a round ball of ruffled yellow and blue feathers and anger landing on his palm and the Sorcerer watches with a crooked smile as the creature preens. Of all the birds that Rhys could choose, his panicked mind has picked a small blue tit, pretty and colourful but as unimposing as it could get. Just as the boy was, flashy and a burst of eager colours but turning into nothing more than a pliable tremble of a heart in Jack’s hands, soaking in the poison of his words with the determinedness of a seasoned drunk.

Feathers melt into a dribble of smoke, taking in on a tall shape and the Sorcerer finds himself with a hand curled into a fist placed into his palm, mismatched eyes cast downwards and before he knows it, his own fingers close around the wrist when the boy makes a move to pull away. The imminent satisfaction of watching the dejected look, the feeling he himself placed in his boy, turn back into that star-struck gaze at the touch of his words is like a drug, something he can’t get enough and something he can’t stop himself from toying with.

“I knew you would pass the test, sugar. Good boy. I wouldn’t have let you fall.” A lie slips his lips with the effortlessness with which he casts his magic and yet another lie follows as he tells himself that his next action is nothing but a precaution, to seal the boy’s heart, to ensure his obedience and devotion even though he knows that it’s something already there, spun between the strings of Rhys’ soul and the ache in Jack’s bruised ribs. The slightest touch here or there is all that’s needed to nurture it but the Sorcerer has so much more to give, momentarily bursting at the seams and settling down when there are arms coming around him and pulling the man back into one quantity. Be it due to a lack of any other even moderately friendly creature in his imminent surroundings, Rhys’ world has shrunk to the man who’s as eager to push him away as he’s willing to let him crawl back in search of safety.

“I know, I know you wouldn’t.” There it is, the unwavering trust despite Jack trampling over it day after day, same day after day restored with the simplest words of praise or, as in this moment, a return of an affection, genuine in its intention but dubious in motivation. 

The Sorcerer hums, one hand coming up to pet through the boy’s hair, idly noting his left ear being placed upside down.

-II-

It has become a sort of a ritual, on days that neither of them spends attending to their respective duties and work, nor occupied otherwise, an easy silence slinks through the air, setting a calmer mood, the warmth of a tame flicker of the flame in the hearth shared between them, two quiet breaths and a rustle of pages in the evening. The first three times he catches Rhys staring at him and making faces, the Sorcerer pays it little mind, a quirk of his eyebrows sending the boy hiding back behind the cover of a book and it’s not until the fourth time that he actually lets his eyes linger on the said cover.

“What sort of crap is it?” The library he has built comprised of all sorts of different genres and texts but he doesn’t recall getting one of -those-. Mismatched eyes peek over the book, the forehead above them coloured a bright shade of red. “You do realize they are meant for frustrated noble women with more time and money on their hands than dicks they are getting. This is highly unbecoming of a young man such as yourself.” Jack finishes deeply pleased with the juxtaposition he has set, second to none regard spared for virtually having described his apprentice, insulting as it was. Harlequins, cheesy and unrealistic and, given that the boy has nearly reached the last couple of pages, prompting this bumbling idiot into his bouts of awkward flirting recently. He runs one hand over his face, slowly drawing in a single, strained breath. “Fine.” An agreement to an unspoken question and he’s already discarding his own reading material, a glass with amber liquor set on the nearest table as he gets up to his feet, motioning for the boy to follow him. “You want some good stories, I believe there should be some left from Angel’s adolescence.” 

The thick, dusty book is stuffed on one of the top shelves, forgotten over the years and Jack watches with mild interest as his apprentice calls forth his powers, clearly showing off, and climbs the twisted vines till he can grab the old tome. A beanstalk hanging off a beanstalk, the Sorcerer’s nose scrunched at the thought. A compilation of tales, that’s what he’s recommending, not those silly bedtime stories mothers offered in hushed tones to put the little ones to sleep, real fables, with no clear line between the good and the bad, tinged with the ambiguity of grim reality.

With the next evening come even more brief glances shot over the heavy cover, a couple of stray feathers still sprouting from his apprentice’s head and eventually, an exasperate sigh and a crotchety ‘what is it this time’. Rhys looks entirely too pleased with himself as he closes the book with an air of finality about it, slinking closer and dragging a footrest closer to the Sorcerer’s armchair, sat just to the side and staring intently.

“Did you enjoy the story?” He can only assume that finishing at least one of them has riled the boy up and drew him closer, whatever new silly idea swirling about in that empty head of his prompting a squint from his master.

There comes a hummed ‘mhm’, mismatched eyes turning half lidded and Jack recognizes that smile, the smile that says ‘i’ve got it’ even though Jack knows the kid just haven’t got it.

“I know what you are trying to tell me.”

“Oh really?” 

Another ‘mhm’ and the Sorcerer rakes his brain over what could have started all of this, gaze gravitating back towards the now abandoned book and he tries to remember which fable was the first in order, having clearly brought his dreamy apprentice to some false conclusions.

“A handsome man, cursed and living alone in his castle with no-one but his servants for company until a beauty shows up to finally break the spell…” 

“And just where do -you- fit into the story silly thing? You ain’t exactly filling the Beauty’s shoes as far as I can tell.” Whatever Rhys is planning can’t be good, the Sorcerer’s arms coming to cross over his chest, not defensively, just… cautiously. 

“Dunno yet. But I do know where you fit. The Beast. Waiting to be freed from the curse of a heart frozen with loneliness” Coy glances are met with an unimpressed snort, even more grumbling following as the boy reaches out, finger skirting over the shell of his ear and when he pulls his hand back, a lick of the familiar powers against the edges of Jack’s consciousness, he’s holding a single rose instead of a penny traveling magicians would usually pull from behind the ears of the people they were trying to scam. “And here’s your enchanted charm, slowly wilting away and marking the ticking time.”

Counting back from ten to one usually helps when dealing with Rhys’ antics but this time the Sorcerer thinks he might be needing to count back from a hundred, eyes snapping open again and brows furrowing as he feels soft petals trailing along the peak of his cheekbone and down to his lips. 

The books, the glances and an odd, uncharacteristic quip here and there finally click, Jack wrapping his hand around the one currently holding the rose to pull it back and away from his face.

“Have you been courting me, sugar?” Despite keeping his voice neutral, there is no denying the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the stem of the flower twirled between Jack’s fingers to brush the exact same spot that has been pressed to his lips mere moments ago against Rhys’. Who in return tries to narrow his eyebrows, expression quickly melting into something more submissive and that’s as much of an answer as a slow nod that follows. “Why?”

“Might have.” He can’t see it exactly but he knows that little quirk like he knows every inch of the boy’s soul by now, teeth grazing over the soft lip, and letting the flower tilt to a side only confirms it. “You can’t just dangle something in front of me and take it away. I mean… you can. And that’s what you’ve been doing. I gave up my everything, all I’m asking for is a little bit of you.”

“Greedy.” The flower ends up left in the boy’s grasp, Jack’s hand coming up to take hold of the two ends of the red fabric, secured around the neck that is just so begging to be decorated in more bruises. “It’s all or nothing with me sugar, and you’re trying to bite off more than you could possibly chew.” A tug is given when Rhys tries to turn his head to the side, bringing them that fraction closer and the Sorcerer watches from the corner of his eye as the discarded flower slowly begins to wilt, losing the bright hue in favour of something more muted. 

“So be it. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” 

“You’re going to choke on this ambition of yours one day.” He’s hopeless and Jack thinks he might be a little bit hopeless too because he has made the boy to be that way and then fallen for his own trap. Another tug, an invitation to make a room for himself on the Sorcerer’s lap, one that is eagerly taken and soon enough he has an armful of squirms and little pleased sighs. 

“Aspirations. Not ambitions. I aim to follow the best.”

“And just where did you learn to be such a sweet talker?” Here’s hoping that none of those words came from one of the god awful books the boy has managed to down before getting caught red handed. Curious of the reaction his action will yield, the Sorcerer simply leans back, resting a little bit more comfortably and simply lacing his fingers together, contact kept to the minimum. “Say you had me, what would you do?” 

That doesn’t have the boy in a pinch nearly as much as he had hoped for, a simple cock of his head and a moment of hesitation, staged, as Jack suspects. 

“Well, the story said that a true love’s kiss would lift the curse.”

“No it didn’t.” Regardless of his words an imminent headbutt is in order, a mere second given ahead to act, one hand darting up to stop the face homing in on his, which earns him a displeased whine and a more nervous shift across the lap. “Easy. Slow down. Don’t pucker your lips like that.” His thumb swipes higher, gently prying the boy’s lips apart and leaving them ever so slightly parted. “Try again.” 

They are soft and damp and have Jack hesitate simply because it feels so good, fleeting touch skirting along the curve of his jaw before trailing higher. He thinks the deal wouldn’t be half-bad, getting to teach this eager little thing everything that made him tick, just another step to claim his complete possession over the boy’s mind and soul. Not a particularly necessary one but definitely much welcomed improvement. Lips darting lower, to his neck, and then upon tugging the collar of his shirt away, to his collarbones, have him reconsider this statement however and a finger curling under the boy’s chin brings him up again.

“Nu-uh sweet thing, I’ve seen you chomp down on enough things you grew fondness for that I ain’t risking anything yet. Back up here.” A tap against the quirked corner of his mouth quickly helps dissipate the quizzical look he’s receiving for those words and then he can get to finally making everything more mutual. A nip to the ever-abused flesh brings more pleased sighs, lips willingly parting to let him in. There are claws gingerly coming up to rest at the nape of his neck, curling as he deepens the contact and giving an impatient tug to the collar of his jacket when he eases back. 

With make outs turning sloppy and little grinds against your front tethering on insistent, time grows insignificant, but whether you are watching minutes trickle by or not, they do take their toll, able to turn any saint into the most impatient fucker and neither the master nor his apprentice are patient men. 

Jack pulls away, watching the destruction he has wrecked painted in every shade of red on the boy’s face, the flush on his cheeks, the bitten lips and an array of little marks on his throat. 

“That was the ‘little’ you have asked of me. Satisfied?” If looks could kill then his heart would have not dropped back into its frantic rhythm after the scowl he’s just received.

“And you threatened to give your all. If that’s it then I am hardly impressed.” The words do not correlate with the dishevelled state, Rhys looking more than impressed and the Sorcerer is more than happy to raise to the bait, shooting one of his trademark smirks before shooting to his feet, arms securely wrapped around the body he holds close to himself. 

“My ‘all’ needs to be taken elsewhere, race me?” And with that, the firm hold is released, tangible turning intangible, Jack choosing the fastest method of traveling and a billow of keen fog darts towards the door. A good month of training comes to fruition when he can’t pick up a thud of an ass colliding with the stone floor, the slightest of airy touches brushing along his side, the sleek curl of barely contained smoke flitting beside him before giving into the thrill and dashing -past- him. 

The Sorcerer is already forming a few choice words for that insolence even prior to his mouth reforming but they all are stifled when Rhys, reaching the bedroom a couple of seconds earlier and still finding the time to regain his more corporeal state -and- lean against the doorframe with the smuggest of grins, peels himself from the wall to crash back into him. 

There still is that underlying compliance, hidden between little moans and in the way he doesn’t try to throw his weight around even as he throws his arms around Jack’s neck, pulling and needing but never straight up demanding. The Sorcerer quickly picks up on how his touches are mirrored, the boy trying to learn as much as he’s trying to map out every inch of his body and by the time his calves hit the skirting of the bed, Jack’s shirt has already been stepped on, an imprint of a shoe left to be a memory for tomorrow’s morning. 

He falls and drags the boy down with himself, not a word of protest, not from those lips, not ever, Rhys diving straight after him, knees bumping and hands fumbling before he can settle down on top of the sprawled man. The brief lull as they both try to kick off the remains of their clothes, too busy with their respective buttons and laces to interrupt each other, has the Sorcerer sucking in a strangled breath, eyes eagerly dancing over the hollows and ridges of the body he knows so well, now cast in a different lightning. The way Rhys carries himself completely changed and yet familiar, the heavy dip of his hips, and a cant of his head, an equally heated gaze shot Jack’s way making him wonder if he hadn’t accidentally skipped along the bond. No he hadn’t and the light prod along it brings a little gasp to reddened lips. 

It’s easy to roll them over, Jack now on his side, one hand pinning down two mismatched arms above the boy’s head, the other skimming over the expanses of his smooth front, the touch as decent in its indecency as it is bold, charting the course he’s planning to follow with more bites and kisses. Which he does, with vigor and enthusiasm usually reserved for activities involving more bloodshed and cries for help instead of whispered pleas for more. Rhys doesn’t even strain against the grip, the lightest of touches taken like a stern command, restrained trembles threatening to shake Jack’s world and flip it upside down.

A pretty and eager thing like this is bound make a man want to take it to the next level, if only driven by curiosity of what could be found once it completely falls apart. The Sorcerer’s mind is already forming a semi-coherent plan, turning woulds into wills and setting something more deliberate into motion, cool glass against the warmth of his palm. Or as deliberate and thought-through as he can manage with his mind short circuiting, but a wish to return to his toy later is there and that’s what prompts a murmur of a command to get up, followed eagerly if in a somewhat dazed fashion. He herds the boy to the windowsill, mismatched hands coming to brace against the frame, his form bowed down and Jack takes a couple of moments to trail his fingers down the gentle curve of his spine.

“Keep your legs together for me, just like the last time, sugar.” A glance cast over an arching shoulder tells him that his memories weren’t the only ones drifting back to those moments, now becoming the reality instead of a pleasant aftertaste. The clank of a vial, recapped and placed onto the windowsill, is the only sound in the sudden stillness, charged and full of anticipation, slippery fingers pushing into the inviting tightness, quickly gravitating higher over a stretch of soft skin. Slipping back into it feels like driving himself somewhere familiar and well-known, far from casual because there is nothing casual about the warmth of Rhys’ thighs and there is nothing casual about the way the Sorcerer nudges one curious finger -inside- of him. A couple of experimental wiggles until he finds the right angle are a promise for more to come another day, answered with a surprised hitch in the already unsteady breathing. An arm comes to wrap around the boy’s midsection, propping him up and offering an opportunity to ground himself but not to grind against just yet, the build up catching up to the both of them with little quakes and drawn out gasps, shared and echoed between the two intertwined bodies. 

The time for holding back has passed, the steady rock of Jack’s hips making his apprentice jostle around the finger angled downwards, and the bites placed between his shoulderblades are far from gentle, a sharp contrast to the murmured words of praise mingled with reminders of utter surrender. He likes how his possessive promises have the boy try to tighten the grip he has on him, the literal one since the more figurative one doesn’t need any more reinforcement and he likes how smooth the flesh feels against his touch but most of all he loves how what he gives is so eagerly taken, without questioning and without hesitation, the shaking frame below him barely holding together. 

The time for holding back has passed but with eagerness comes recklessness and with that, an end that tumbles closer too fast. The building up heat in the pit of his stomach quickly finds release in the tipping moment, turning round the corner and stumbling at full speed, little regard given for the upcoming crash. Jack has waited too long to give shit about finesse or holding back, still riding the high of the tremors rattling in his bones as he yanks the quivering mess of a boy up, pushing him against the wall, one hand briefly dipping between his thighs coming away slicked and with a tangible conclusion to his way-too-soon-over gratification sticking to the fingers. Seems like a hand at his throat and a hand working away at the hard flesh is just the right combination to send Rhys over the edge with a stifled yowl and teeth coming hard against an abused lip.

He lets a nearly listless body slump against him, listening to the frantic heartbeat and choppy breaths, the Sorcerer’s own content having simmered down to something more manageable, a nearly dull throb of satisfaction settling in his bone and heavy eyelids alike. Eventually a low, rumbling sound announces the return of some senses to the boy, Rhys growing all the more intent on prolonging the contact and turning it into a cuddle despite the lingering stickiness, no amount of hissing on Jack’s end having any effect. Begrudgingly, he agrees to the arms wrapping around him, the full body contact and a nose nuzzling into the side of his neck, genuinely too pleased himself to keep the act up. 

Come morning, and after winning a brief fight with a tentacle monster latched to his side, Jack will take the time to fondly trace his fingers over the deep notches torn into the wood of the windows frame, a quiet moment to himself before he can send his unfortunate apprentice on a fool’s errand, the dirtied shirt clutched in mismatched hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A S/O to @heartlynk for giving the best idea that made this chapter possible  
> and my ever so patient beta and a real life hero @starfruit


	11. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this literally doesn't add -anything- to the plot, i'm just catering to my own kinks :^)

An ache settles itself into the right side of his face, bone deep and making Rhys feel like he has just received a mean punch to his jaw. It’s that kind of throbbing, non-stop pain that soon grows to be hard to ignore, making the apprentice pull a constant sour face and the simple joys of life lose their meaning. There is no more fun in watching the corpses decay at an accelerated rate as his vines drink in the nutrients and bloom all the stronger, nor there’s any to be delivered from watching his master perform his usual gruesome rituals. It feels just plain and bland and Rhys wants to curl into an upset ball of -un-happiness instead of needing to loom over the Sorcerer as the man works away at the flesh of some creature he’s been dissecting, droning on and on about its various uses in potion brewing.  
So it turns out to be a no surprise when Jack finally snaps and grabs him by the ear, trying to bring his apprentice’s attention to the stone altar and the dead beast.

“Repeat the last sentence I’ve just said, stupid thing.”

He can’t, he wasn’t listening, too busy, wrapped up in wallowing in self-pity and so he does the only other thing that could help him out of this fucked up situation. Brows knitting and eyes turned into the most pleading and morose expression he can muster, a soft apology slips the downturned corners of his lips. It usually seems to be having a moderately positive effect on his master anyway.

“Why do I even bother if you’re not paying attention?” A tug to his ear prompts a small whine and he hunches all the more, pleading eyes cast upwards and lower lip pulled in so he can worry his teeth over it, hoping that the Sorcerer will take pity of him. “What’s gotten into you? Daydreaming again?”

Rhys shakes his head once the grip on his ear releases, claws coming up to skirt over the slightly swollen side of his face and a murmured ‘hurts’ is the only reply he gives. That, in return, prompts a sigh from the other man as he herds his apprentice back to the study room, wiping his hands from the gore and blood still sticking to it as he goes. 

“Alright, sit down sugar and tell me what’s wrong.” As if he knew what’s wrong himself. However, the more or less agreeable tone has him relaxing slightly, serenity restored when he figures out he should just lay his troubles onto his master’s hands, and let him deal with it. With eyes fixed on the floor, Rhys only shrugs, flinching when a hand none too gently grabs him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Still unsure of how to approach his answer, the apprentice simply decides to let his jaw drop, staring hopefully into the abyss of Jack’s eyes, claws and nails tracing idle patterns over the armrests of the chair. Not his favourite chair in the castle, but the only one in this room and the very same where the Sorcerer would occasionally have him seated in as he went about implementing one or another idea of dealing with his unwilling passenger.

A thoughtful hum follows fingers prying his mouth open further and slipping in to prod about, bringing out a wince to his face. He thinks Jack must have asserted the situation fairly quickly if the spark of sudden realization and the quirk of his lips is anything to go by, but the man keeps his hand where it is, the pads of his fingers now moving to run over the indentations his teeth left in the soft flesh. A gentle and borderline intimate gesture, never failing to put the apprentice into a more subdued state, the light tickling pushing the throb to the back of his mind, not for the lack of a soothing brush along the bond linking the two of them either.

“Oh baby, those sweets are catching up to you. We’ll need to take care of these teeth.” It barely registers with his mind by now, shreds of attention focused solely on the fingernail grazing along the swell of his upper lip, eyes fluttering closed as he nods drowsily.

“Yeah. Please.” Not that he cares anymore what he’s asking for, little concern given for the threat hiding in the plural, barely anything able to push past the tranquilizing itch that settles under the Sorcerer’s fingers and Rhys knows no more, if it’s the magic, or if it’s the longing in his heart but he’s fine with whichever it happens to be. The feeling stays, a ricochet darting from the point of contact to the empty space in his chest as he exhales, even when the touch lifts off. 

With teeth trying to chase away or maybe replicate the sensation, the apprentice keeps on watching his master from under lowered lashes, the man moving about his work space and picking up the tools. Very big tools, Rhys’ mind helpfully adds and the situation slowly starts sinking in, still at the back of his attention but turning a little bit more pressing when the tip of a pair of tongs clinks against the bottom of a small cauldron. Whatever it is submerged in, gives a slight hiss, acid burning away residue clinging to the metal. 

“Oh these?” The Sorcerer catches him staring intently, one hand waved dismissively. “Can’t cauterize ‘em the way I usually do. I use those for whenever one of my stupid dragons eats something it shouldn’t and needs to have some of its fangs pulled. Can’t really burn away whatever cooties live in their maws with fire. Don’t you worry, they’ll be clean as new in a few minutes.” That… doesn’t serve to put out the twinge of worry beginning to curl in the pit of Rhys’ stomach. At all.

Those couple of minutes stretch without mercy, a hand coming up to affectionately pet through his hair the only highlight as the touch he craves the most doesn’t return.

This time, Jack takes greater care rinsing his own hands, warm water and soap washing away whatever might have still been stuck to his skin. He sorts through his collection of various instruments, finally picking up the smallest pair of tongs, still verging on the ‘large’ end but clearly meant for extracting things less imposing than a dragon’s fangs.

“All ready, keep your mouth open wide for me sugar. And stay still.” Rhys wishes for the restrains to be wrapped around his wrists because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stay put. A vague memory of a travelling medicine man coming periodically through his village and the screams of those subjugated to his ‘care’ makes itself present but he’s not going to disobey, fingers gripping the armrests tighter. The oh-so desired touch returns for a brief second, thumb swiping over his bottom lip before securing his jaw in a tight lock as the Sorcerer begins investigating the damage further, words muttered under his breath. “Four and five will have to go, six seems to be in a good condition.” 

The metal doesn’t exactly fit inside of his mouth, a prompt to open further given and the clank against his sore tooth has him shivering. Jack seems to know what he’s doing, working efficiently and in short, controlled movements, the tongs locking around the bone, a flick of his wrist back and forth followed with a sick crunch and a pained whimper. The apprentice doesn’t dare to move just yet, as the metal is replaced with fingers coming to pick the shattered roots, the sharp tips of gauntlet digging into the tender gum and then coming away, a string of saliva and blood linking them for a precious second. There are tears streaming down his face, the retracting grip allowing for his own hands to come up and clutch at his mouth, more broken whines filling in the silence of the room. With the Sorcerer’s touch gone he’s free to give into the overwhelming feeling, shaking and swallowing back pained gasps.

“Aren’t you a brave boy.” Jack cooes and while it doesn’t take away the pain, it makes it that little bit more bearable. “Such a good and obedient thing you are, hmm?” There is a palm smoothing through his hair and then inching lower to wipe away some of the tears, the expression on the Sorcerer’s face tinged with pride and something much darker, perhaps contentment but with what, Rhys can’t tell. 

“Jack… please, you can make it go away, can’t you? Please.” With eyebrows scrunched, he tucks his face into his master’s hand, nuzzling it and pleading some more.

“Sweetheart, I wish I could, I’m sorry,” he sounds sincere (he isn’t) offering some more reassuring touches, “without the pain you won’t learn your lesson, and you are always so eager to learn, aren’t you?” Rhys nods because it’s true, of course it is, Jack is always right even when he does things that feel plain wrong and he’s -helping- so what’s there to be afraid of, he can soldier on through some silly pain if that means more praise. “Come on sweet thing, one more to go, I promise it will feel better later.” Jack is always right and he never lies so the lips, glistening with the blood and spit marring them, part, trusting eyes fixed on his.

-II-

This one seems to be a little bit more inclined towards staying where it is, the Sorcerer huffing when the metal slips, a sorrowful whimper and a quiver of a tongue against the pad of his finger. The apprentice is positively shaking without a pause by now, the front of his shirt speckled with red tinted dampness, knuckles white with how tightly he’s gripping onto the wood and between his tear-filled eyes and the way in which he’s so readily accepting the fingers in his mouth, the view is bound to stick with Jack for a long time. Finally getting a good grip, the man focused so hard the tip of his tongue peeks from between his lips, all it takes is one snap to pull the tooth out, the thing coming out almost intact. He’s not willing to part with that damp warmth just yet, pretending to be inspecting the abused gum, the tip of his gauntlet lightly digging into the open wound and prompting a hiss. The tongue, sinfully soft and nimble and just on the right end of slippery, moves against his fingers as the boy produces some incoherent garble of words, swallowing around the flesh and metal alike before repeating once again when Jack retracts. 

“Thank you.” Quiet and rough and so sincere the Sorcerer’s heart does a flip and twitches, same acrobatics repeated in his pants, and with an agreeable hum, he swaps his hands, deciding to indulge himself a little bit more, a reward for the boy for remembering to be polite. Jack thinks the greed has been punished enough, a gentle prod from his powers dulling some of the most imminent pain, just enough to take the edge off it, and knitting the deepest gashes as he returns to the previous affections, armoured hand lightly, for now, resting over the fluttering pulse at the boy’s throat, the fingers of his other hand brushing higher to run along the curl of reddened lips, once again working their way inside. Rhys’ head lands with a soft thud against the back of the chair and the Sorcerer is virtually looming over him by now, one knee resting against the edge of the seat, expression turned into something far too soft and content for the way in which he keeps gliding his fingerpads over the smooth flesh of barely healed gums and for the way in which he curiously tries exploring further down the boy’s mouth and throat. There is no resistance to his advances, not that there ever was, only half-lidded eyes brimming with trust and compliance, in their submission, driving the man to want, to need to press more, to see where the line is drawn despite the strong suspicion that the line just doesn’t exist. 

“So damn soft and pliant…” A couple more tears rolls down the flushed cheeks, a jerk of teeth against his fingers coming when he presses his fingernail into the shallow wound, followed with a lap of a tongue, an apology for nearly biting down, he assumes. “You’d do anything and everything for me honey?” Of course it’s met with a soft ‘mhm’ of agreement, trembling against bloodstained lips and around his fingers and hell there is no stopping him now.

This right here, the way Rhys always turns belly up and the way his eyes pull at the corners when he lets his jaw fall that fraction slacker, it’s another plane of pleasure, a high that only comes with utter subjugation offered willingly and without hesitation. It could be enough on it’s own but not for Jack, not for the man who doesn’t know when to stop taking, the hand around the throat, sticky with the cooling down sweat, presses harder, as do the fingers currently resting over the back of the boy’s tongue. A stutter of a breath and a slightly choked gulp, drank greedily by lips now darting over the slowly drying trickle of blood running down the quivering chin. Rhys has managed to slobber all over himself and the Sorcerer thinks he doesn’t half mind it, pulling at the boy’s cheek and tucking his fingers along the curve of his upper teeth to make room for an insistent tongue. He tastes of blood and fear, the combination heady and doing nothing to have him turn back before he accidentally ends up breaking his plaything. Jack likes breaking things, he’s just not sure he could easily get over damaging beyond repair this particular one and so he makes sure to add just a little bit of his own satisfaction to the mix, bouncing back along the connection and effectively blurring the lines between his apprentice’s discomfort and own investment. 

There is a hard to ignore tremble of the body beneath him when he gives a light nip to an abused lip, followed with a harder bite and then smoothed over with a good amount of more gentle ones. With great satisfaction he can still see hands obediently holding onto the armrests, a flutter in his chest rising when a disappointed whine comes at the lack of contact. 

“Wanna do something for me, sugar? Want to make me feel good?” An eager nod and finally a more forward action in the form of noses bumping and shy nuzzles given.

“Yeah. Yes, I do.” The stupid kid sounds gracious, for the violence he thinks he has received as a reward and that’s one thing Jack wants to nurture, something he doesn’t mind actually -rewarding-, the very same stupid kid, in his dumb eagerness, making a space for himself between the Sorcerer’s ribs. See, Jack thinks, he keeps the boy compliant by not over-abusing him, or at least, meeting every new shade of wrongdoing with more of what Rhys craves and things are going to be good between them. Good in a way that the Sorcerer doesn’t end up feeling threatened the moment he realizes that with the genuine bliss he receives from occasionally catering to his apprentice’s needs, comes a loss of total control. Regardless, he’s not going to be happy once it catches up to him one day. -If- it does.  
“Whatever you want from me.” Rhys doesn’t see it, he doesn’t understand, that in his blind devotion he’s gained the exclusive rights to have the very same favour returned to him, ten folds and warped but given with pure intention of the impure mind. Jack stops the useless train of thoughts and drags the boy to his feet, catching him when he stumbles with a whispered ‘gotcha’ and reveling in the star-struck expression he gets in return for a few seconds. 

“Come on, here, up and on your back.” A pat to the tabletop, and he’s somewhat unwilling to release the body trembling against his chest despite the command, eventually unwrapping his arms from around the boy’s waist and steering him this way or another until Rhys is laid out flat on his back and with head hanging over the edge.

“Keep your eyes closed, breath through the nose and -relax-.” That’s all the forewarning he’s going to give, briefly running both palms over his apprentice’s front, watching him arch into the touch and slumping down with a restrained whine as the touche ceases, replaced by the sound of a belt buckle getting undone. 

“Open up.” A few lazy strokes to bring more blood rushing south and he’s already nudging against soft lips and asking for entrance. They part, as easily as they always do, letting the first couple of inches in before a fist wrapped around the base stops the progress. It feels every part the way he had hoped it would, even better, because he assumed he’d be needing to deal with inexperience and teeth everywhere but this arrangement has him completely in control and in charge of his own pleasure. The rocks of his hips are shallow for now, words of encouragement murmured between stifled gasps and he can’t keep his free hand from straying to the arched throat, feeling it bob as the boy swallows. There is a small dose of choking and coughing in between the forward rolls but they soon ease back, giving way to a tongue curiously testing and probing at the hard flesh before eventually deciding to settle over the front set of teeth, the Sorcerer quietly praising the boy for his ingenuity. 

“Think you can handle a bit more?” The reply is garbled, and with a light chuckle, Jack pulls back to hear it loud and clear, despite anticipating the agreement, an undeniable thrill delivered from every form of submission he gets, especially the spoken one.  
The way he wants to go about it, harsh and dirty, would probably end up in either, an involuntary bite, or another disaster, but the Sorcerer can be creative when need be, once again skipping along the bond to wrap around Rhys’ thoughts, fogging his perception of reality with what -he- is feeling and taking the edge off the forceful thrust that has him buried all the way in. With both hands now either side of the arched throat, his thumbs skim over the shape outlined under the pale skin, a drowsy hum bringing a louder moan out of him and sending a quake to his knees. They buckle underneath him but don’t give out completely, the jerky motion tugging the boy closer to the edge but the compliant body constricts only slightly around the hardness lodged deep into the throat, mismatched fingers curling around the wooden surface of the table. Jack experimentally drives himself in and out, for a second tethering at the edge of fully slipping away from between soft lips, but they chase after the warmth leaving them and with a pleased chuckle, the Sorcerer pushes forward, once again coming to a still only when the sharp tip of Rhys’ nose presses into his skin. He could easily choke -and- strangle his toy to death right now, palms moving to rub a few idle strokes over the curve of the bulging throat, the very thought of touching himself through a layer of pale skin sending more sparks of pleasure tingling from the tips of his horns down to his toes.

There is no way to keep his concentration steady enough to maintain the connection for long so he tries to make the best of it while it lasts, with each fervent snap of his hips and the tighter squeeze of his hands, bringing himself closer to that precarious moment when his attention will shatter. Between the stacking up pleasure and the deeply satisfying tremors rocking the body he’s using, Jack has enough brains left to withdraw and release the grip he has on the boy’s consciousness before it becomes too much. 

Some gasps and coughing later that welcoming warmth greets him again, back to shallower thrusts and back to half-stuttered words of praise. It still feels pretty damn good, the drag of a tongue against more sensitive areas and the sight of quickly rising and dropping chest, good enough that he soon is shoving the boy away, his own fist making quick work of driving himself home. Despite every desire to mark his possession, the Sorcerer keeps Rhys clinginess at the back of his mind, unwilling to deal with dirtied clothes, and chooses to angle himself downwards, heavy drops landing against the stone floor. 

Said clinginess comes almost instantly as Jack perches himself with a drawn out sigh at the edge of the tabletop, arms coming around his slumped form and a nose pushed into the crook of his neck without hesitation. Not really the one to leave someone he cares about enough to leave them still breathing at the end of the day, his own hands move to pet through a ruffled mop of hair and down the arch of the boy’s spine, but no indication to take things further comes. 

“You good there, sugar?” With his face pressed into Rhys’ temple, the words are seeped nearly directly into his ear, a little hoarse and still tinged with the underlying pants as his breath slowly drops back into its usual pace.

“Mhm.” If Jack’s voice is slightly hoarse then the boy’s is virtually scrapped raw, shaking around the name murmured into warm skin. “Jack?”

“What is it sweet thing?” 

“I really liked that.” 

“You are one hell messed up, kid.” The lips against his throat curl with the faintest of smiles and Jack is left wondering if this nearly unnerving compliance is due to his own manipulations, a mix of fear and gentle words of praise, or whether he’s just working with a precious material that just so happened to overlap with his own fancies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i hope it didnt come across as anything close to dub-con or shit :|  
> lemme kno if it did ill try to fix that


	12. repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's just... pure smut. honestly, nothing else. and I usually write stupid amount of it right before shit's about to hit the fan *waggles eyebrows*

Jack is idly playing with the rim of a cup held in his palm when a quiet huff, followed with a less than pleased grunt announces the curled body beside him coming back to its senses. There’s a croaked first syllable of what he can only assume to be his name, the boy breaking into a fit of coughs and more wheezes as he tries catching his breath. 

“Easy there.” The Sorcerer can’t bring himself to hide the chuckle colouring his words, sat at the edge of his apprentice’s bed with legs crossed over and a hand coming up to pet through sleep ruffled hair. “Sore all over?” 

A drowsy nod is all he gets in reply and Rhys shifts closer, the good side of his face now placed on top of his master’s lap as one hand moves to rub over the still swollen cheek.

“Promised it would feel better after, didn’t I? Come on sugar, let me see if things are healing properly and we’ll fix you right up.” Jack thinks he will never get enough of those trusting eyes searching for his, a couple of droplets sticking to long eyelashes and corners turning softer when the boy finds whatever he’s looking for closed inside the two rings of gold. Setting the mug on the bedside table, the Sorcerer moves to go about his inspection, tilting the head so innocently placed on his lap, this and that way, fingers coming to pry soft lips apart. His request was nothing else but a completely made up thing, the man hardly interested in the healing progress but definitely dead set on having a little bit of fun, something to make the memories of the last night all the more vivid. It’s not even that much about the tactile side of it, what he’s really after is the sweetness of strained hisses when he prods at the barely healed over wounds and the way he can see Rhys shake under his ministrations, immediately relaxing when he picks up on the soothing notes in Jack’s voice and obediently lets his jaw fall all the more slack. The touch retracts from the willing mouth to trace over the curve of the boy’s cheek and in return, that makes two mismatched eyes disappear behind dropping eyelids and a soft sigh to follow. 

“I have a little something to ease your discomfort.” The cup makes it back into Jack’s palm and he curls his fingers around it, letting heat build up to warm its content. The apprentice however, misinterprets the gesture, angling his face to tuck the arch of his nose into the center of the hand still giving him much desired attention and chasing it with a gentle nudge.

“Please?” This thing, eager and so insanely impatient, making Jack roll his eyes but at the same time stroking the simmering satisfaction in his chest. He prompts the boy to sit up, eventually passing the cup to him, but only after he has let the unexpected anticipation build up that fraction more. 

“Po...tion?” He’ll never understand his apprentice’s apprehension when it comes to potion brewing, sure you sometimes need to add less than savoury ingredients but the subtle power hidden between the swirls of intermingling liquids cannot be denied. This however, is far more mundane, more like a recipe passed between old village women, something to be used in times of need, whether to put a particularly chatty infant to sleep or help through labour, the purpose depending mostly on the proportions.

“Yeah, it’s a potion alright, sugar.” Not like he’s going to let the air of mystery the boy likes to imagine surrounding him dissipate.

 _Ten parts warmed up goat milk._ And Jack watches his boy take the first careful sip, letting the taste linger on the tongue before swiping it over his lips to catch an errant drop that stuck in the corner.

There’s an appreciative hum and the Sorcerer in return grows to appreciate the warmth those soft purrs send to his guts, spreading out even to the tips of his fingers. He wants to take that sound away, make it his and have it echo against the hollow in his chest, to make the warmth pooling underneath his nails turn into an itch when his fingers dig into the skin and tear it. So he curls them into the material of the linens and stays motionless.

 _Three parts buckwheat honey._ The sweetness was bound to pick up the boy’s fancy, and the next gulp is far more greedy but the only thing Jack can think of is how he craves to replace that with his own bitterness.

He needs to drink in all those little sweet things that make his apprentice the way he is because there’s nowhere else he could get his fix and Rhys is a never ending well, always begging to be drawn from. So before the next drag comes, his hand moves to rest over the claws clutching the mug, halting another dip.

“Careful. It’s potent. Drink slowly and only as much as you need.” The warning given, the Sorcerer returns to simply observing, lips pulling into a snarl as he receives a flat stare, Rhys quickly tilting the cup back and knocking the content back in two loud swallows. 

_One part poppy milk._ Jack slowly exhales through the nose, considering delivering a swift punch to the boy’s stomach just to take away his gift even as he can see him sticking out his tongue to catch the last few drops of sweet concoction lazily dribbling over the edge. 

“...’s not workin…” The Sorcerer can’t decide whether he feels more insulted, plain annoyed or just amused with the antics. 

“You’re going to regret saying that later.” He’s giving him a couple of minutes for the effects to fully kick in. They will come down like a hammer to this dumb thing’s head, given how he carelessly chugged the drink with reckless abandon and Jack is partly inclined to leave the boy to deal with the repercussions himself. The dose wasn’t big enough to knock even someone with little to no resistance out but it certainly is enough to loosen some, if there are any, inhibitions and send them leaving the body with the slowly quickening breath. With little concern for his plans to leave, a head is heavily placed back on his lap, the figurative weight pinning the man down with how much he genuinely enjoys those little displays of trust. 

And then, it comes, a slight dilation of pupils and a blissful smile splayed on dumb lips. It’s followed with an even dumber gesture, a hand coming up to prod at his broken horn.

“...hurts?” No, no it doesn’t, still a little sore but the hardened tissue is slowly beginning to build up again and the Sorcerer just shakes his head, curiously cocking it as, for the time being, he lets himself be subjugated to insistent touch. A soft hum slips around the curled corners of the boy’s lips, the gentle prod suddenly turning into a harder yank to tug his head closer. 

“Hey! Lay off child, these ain’t handles to grab onto.” Jack hisses and snarls but hardly anything seems to manage to steer the apprentice off the course he has chosen as he keeps on patting along the smooth curve, the other hand joining to wrap around the off-colour horn. “They aren’t here for decoration only.” The complaint falls on a deaf ear.

They aren’t there for decoration only, the conduits of his magic and quite the achilles heel for the powerful man, linking him with the body he currently possesses but also leaning on the vulnerable side. That’s why he chose to attack them back then in the forest, unwillingly going against his better judgement. Sensitive, that’s also what they are, and while the boy usually picks to nip at the soft flesh of his lips in times of worry, Jack tends to tap along the hardened surface to ground himself. This seems to be working against him this time, a tingle rushing down his spine when the energy stored there meets with the one curled around the tips of his apprentice’s fingers. 

The boy picks up on the sensation instantly, becoming single mindedly focused on it and repeating the motion over and over again, running the pads of his fingers along them and giving a gentle rub to the remaining tip. He squirms and so does Jack, trying to put a bit of a distance between them but finding himself leaning a fraction closer instead. A curse hitches with a shaky breath and between his bared teeth.

“I usually appreciate a wee bit more foreplay before getting to the main course.” Once again his words don’t register with the boy’s mind and it take all the willpower he has to grab the two insistent hands and pull them away, fingers wrapping around fragile wrists but the borderline painful squeeze only prompts a delighted sigh and some more wiggling when Rhys weakly tries to free himself, lifting his head up and flailing his arms about as much as the restraints would allow. Jack doesn’t really… fancy getting elbowed in the dick, by an accident or not, shoving the dead weight off of his lap, disregarding the disappointed whine but easily falling back when an arm wraps around his chest and drags him to lay down. He’s brought that onto himself, didn’t he? Should have let the stupid thing sleep the ache of instead of trying to help, that’s what he gets for getting soft and he thinks it might be his age finally catching up with him.   
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the curious touch, even as it returns, claws skirting along and making the hairs on his forearms rise. It’s just that he doesn’t necessarily appreciate being manhandled like that and that’s exactly what the boy is doing, crawling closer to plop himself beside the laying man, half splayed over him, all elbows and knees and little grace as he re-focuses on the task at hand. The tips of sharp claws and blunt fingernails thrumm against the carapace-like outer layer and he can feel every point of contact with intimate accuracy, every tap rattling a shaky breath out of him.

Jack lets out a groan, the repetitive contact sending nearly electric sparks which ignite flame in the pit of his stomach and cloud his mind. A glimpse of what the boy is planning next catches the Sorcerer’s eye, tongue languidly moving over parted lips and a shift of the body on top of his, as much of an indication as he’d get and that manages to push past the slowly building up pleasure. 

“Rhys!” Once again he manages to grab the insistent moron and hold him -still- for a few moments, one hand coming up to pat the side of his face in search for some lucidity. “Stupid thing, look at me.”

“...’s workin’, Jack.” No shit. But at least two mismatched eyes now turned into two dark pools, meet his own stare and the Sorcerer breaths a little bit easier finding recognition in them. The boy’s face is flushed, gentle trembles running up his body with every more forceful touch that manages to push through the haze fogging his mind.

“Warned ya.” He gives a firmer shake, eventually letting the boy pull back and sit up with his legs tucked underneath him. “Rhys, baby, sugar, you keep that teasing up you gotta see it to the end.” It’s a fair warning and the implication well… while it doesn’t fully make sense to the unfortunate apprentice, at least it manages to bring his attention to the man he has been happily mishandling for the last couple of minutes. At first two eyebrows knit together in confusion but the expression soon melts into something far more blissful, his face beaming with an overjoyed smile as he takes in the redness creeping over the bridge of his master’s nose, the rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. 

“Did I…?” Did he bring Jack to this silly state with just a couple of well placed touches? Yeah he did and there comes the sudden realization that the kid has never got the chance to actually watch the changing expressions on his face whenever they were intimate. “Wicked!” Rhys clasps his hands with absolute delight and the Sorcerer clasps one hand over his face before dragging it lower. 

“I mean it... “ The heavy weight settles back on top of him, claws and human fingers alike curling into the front of his shirt with great hesitation. “Can get you something else to play with till the effects wear off.” For once Jack has something more on the ‘decent’ end of the spectrum in mind, surprising even himself but then again, he’d rather not end up worked up to the edge and then abandoned in favour of a ball of yarn or whatever would pick the boy’s interest next. Better to cut it off sooner than later. All in all, he shouldn’t be surprised, Rhys acted nearly like the needle of a compass the sailors used, the sharp tip of his nose easily managing to point into the direction of the most prominent energy source around him, which usually turned out to be Jack’s general direction, chasing the power and control he so craved. It just also so happened that the apprentice was usually too skittish to bluntly reach for it.

“...’m numb’n’this feels great…” He -should- be numb, not completely but just enough to take the edge off of the pain and make the tight grip at his hip feel like a pleasant caress. “...’s not like you ever did ‘nything I wouldn’t‘eve liked…” The words are slightly slurred, sticking together and sticking to the tip of the boy’s tongue but Jack manages to grasp the meaning behind them, an easy chuckle slipping his lips when he notices how the rougher touch doesn’t even manage to make the kid twitch. 

“You wouldn’t even feel it if I were to tear you apart.” The apprentice only drags himself up awkwardly and presses a ‘shame, innit?’ into the place where skin met the hard angle of Jack’s horn. Fingers return to tend to the tip, rubbing it between a thumb and a forefinger. He has both seen and experienced the light-headedness and dullness that came with light anesthetics, knowing very well how it made one ache for something more concrete and grounding but it was rarely accompanied by pure lust so he chances a guess that it’s safe to assume the willingness was something coming from the boy and not the drug itself.  
Even more so when he angles his head to place a few stinging bites into the arched throat enticingly looming just over his face, and earns a soft exhale against the damp patch now left along the curve of his horn. 

At first it’s enough to just let the boy have his fun, attention completely centered around the literal powerhouse of the Sorcerer’s might and with body occasionally rutting down to bring them closer despite the movement being far from coordinated. Jack cranes his neck this or that way, virtually rubbing his face into the soft skin and angling himself to get the eager lips moving to the spots he liked best, much like an overgrown cat arching its body to make sure those neck scritches were just -right-. Soon enough however, he grows bored of just laying there and taking, hands moving up to rub up Rhys’ sides and then down, eventually resting over the curve of his backside and palming at the soft flesh. 

He might have had planned for things to go down differently, but Jack is nothing if not an opportunist, deciding to make the best of the completely lax state the boy is in, working the laces keeping his pants clinging to trembling hips loose and then working the material down, before fishing out a small bottle with a salve out of his own pocket. It’s slick enough, a herbal scent filling the air as he spreads a generous amount over his fingers to ease their intrusion. Two of them bring more happy sighs but not a single word of protest and he supposes that altogether the situation might have turned into his apprentice’s favour more than the boy might even suspect. If there are any thoughts of that kind still left in his blissed out mind. 

It’s only when he angles his fingers, curling them to dig into and drag over the pliant flesh that the touch sparks a more vigorous reaction, a quake of thighs now spread either side of his waist and a quiet moan stifled with a breath caught in the boy’s throat.There’s no hiding from the Sorcerer, a hand coming up to fist into ruffled hair, the tips of the gauntlet scratching over the boy’s scalp, dragging him up and into Jack’s line of sight, watching the slack-jawed expression and the eyes squeezed tight.

“It’s gonna be more than anything you got before…” Now that he has picked up on where to aim, it’s easy to hit the same spot repeatedly, lips curling into a half smirk of anticipation.

“Don’t want just -more-… I need -everything- at once.” Rhys pushes the words out, one by one, strained as they are, sure to make them perfectly clear for once. Their meaning shoots straight through the Sorcerer, worming its way through his flushed ears, curling around his brain with a tingle and making his heart stutter before rushing deeper with a twinge in his guts before it fully settles into a surge of heat blooming lower. He has warned his apprentice to be careful what he wished for too many times before to spare another second for hesitation right now, last shreds of a forethought making him add that little bit of stretch, working one more finger in to impatiently twist and curl all three of them around. If, the Sorcerer argues with himself, the boy can’t feel half of the pain and Jack can fix up any potential, superficial wounds later on, there’s no harm in going a little rougher and throwing patience to the wind. He urges his apprentice to strip as quickly as he can, eventually needing to swoop in and help untangle him from those pesky sleeves before promptly kicking down his own pants and undergarment.

“Do you know what to do now, sugar?” A hand firmly placed at the boy’s hip makes sure he doesn’t get the stupid idea to keel over and starfish himself on the bed like a spoiled princess waiting to be pleasured. Oh no, he’s going to make his apprentice really work for it this time.

A thoughtful hum and a sluggish nod of a head are the reply he gets, Rhys sitting up slightly, both hands now placed palms down over the Sorcerer’s front, the shifting weight when he leans forward forcing a strangled huff out of the man. Jack hardly bothers to chastise the boy, instead opting for tensing his muscles to give him something more solid to lean against and maybe protect his insides from getting squished. In response, fingers push under the front of his shirt, curious fingertips skirting over the definition and the dusting of coarse hairs, the apprentice instantly losing his focus and instead choosing to marvel at the dips and bumps outlining the coils of his master’s muscles, the quickly dissipating momentary cooperation prompting a gruff huff from the disgruntled man, free hand coming up to curl over the boy’s cheek, bringing his attention back to reality. If, you could call the way Jack’s tongue darts to swipe over his lips, eyes burning and shielded under a half lidded gaze, the reality. It certainly seems to be the core Rhys’ world has narrowed to, the gesture mirrored and a soft mewl ghosting over the thinner skin at the inside of the Sorcerer’s wrist, given in response to a gentle nudge of hard flesh pressing against the boy’s backside. 

“Come on baby, now or never.” And then Rhys finally starts sinking down over the blunt width, his master’s hands keeping both of them steady, one cradling the boy’s face, the other firmly fisted around himself, a set of mismatched claws and nails dragged over tanned skin, one head dropping down the other angling away and ripping the fabric of the linens with a sharp tip of a horn. 

-II-

They share a gasp and the quake originated somewhere between two straining lungs travels all the way through his body, to the most prominent point of contact and shakes through the man below him. The burn feels distant, softened by the outer layer of numbness shrouding his skin and broken only by the sharp sting of the fingers digging into his flesh, a soft murmur and a couple of incoherent words slipping past his parted mouth. Rhys tries to catch them with teeth digging into the lower lip but they are out before he even registers his tongue forcing the name into the still air. His head feels light but his body keeps gravitating towards the man holding him, a force he cannot and doesn’t want to resist, a tingle of every breath trying to break his suddenly too tight ribs. 

Jack rolls his hips and Rhys’ eyes roll back, his grasp on the reality blurring with the blurring vision and yet he still itches for more, letting a plea tremble against his lips. There’s a question, insistently clawing at the back of his head but the boy only answers that with a vigorous nod, already excited even though he doesn’t know what’s yet to come. 

The drop down feels like it’s in a slow motion, his chest now flush against the Sorcerer’s, bumping when they both catch a breath at the same time but Rhys hasn’t got the time to worry about it, hands already darting forward to wrap around the swirling energy, tightly packed and tucked into the two smooth shapes, different lengths but equally enticing. The clumsy, gentle touches are met with curses pressed into the crook of his neck, dragged over the tattoos and chased with a few bites, a distant feeling of the other man moving, the drag of skin against skin and the shallow see-saw motion, adding to the warmth pooled in the core of his being. He’s got Jack where he wanted him to be, wrapped inside of him and wrapped around him and losing control, the apprentice giving as much as he’s greedily taking. It’s good and hot and virtually making him melt at the mingling sensations, soft gasps brushing over flushed skin with every appreciative hum he can pick. 

But then is gone, Jack bolting forward and shaking him, his words jarring in their sudden harshness.

“Dammit, kid, hey! Hey! Stupid thing, stay with me.” Eyebrows knitting together, Rhys searches his master’s face for some clues except it feels like his eyebrows just don’t want to pull closer, drifting apart and eventually his gaze inches lower, at first attributing the blurring lines of his body to the swimming vision but more vigorous shakes finally make him piece the situation together. 

Oh. Ooops, so that happened, the pleasant feeling of melting into Jack’s touch having turned into real melting, a slow loss of his more corporeal state in favour of wisps of dark smoke. It doesn’t feel half as bad as the man is making it sound with his angry growls but the apprentice freezes in place at the stern command to stay still, sans the constant curl and twist of the couple of stray threads at his lower back where the shifting occurred most prominently. From the corners of his eyes, the boy picks up the solid shape outlined through the slightly translucent skin and innards, the view making his heart stutter and he thinks that it’s something worth every grumbled word currently being chucked at him. 

“Stop squirming, I don’t want to end up with my dick caught literally in your re-materialized ass if you miss.” Rhys just cocks his head in response. Wasn’t it exactly what the Sorcerer wanted? Regardless, he waits patiently, craning his neck further when he can feel a prod against his drifting consciousness, letting the man work his way inside of his mind and take another ounce of control before he sets off to work on fixing the accidental mess. “Joined at the hip sounds nice and all but you’d be just a dead weight.” 

Soon enough he finds himself with his fully tangible backside firmly planted against the Sorcerer’s thighs as the man’s back once again hits the mattress with a soft thud and an exasperated sigh.

“Jaaaack....” Rhys thinks they aren’t done here yet, he definitely isn’t, still riding the pleasant numbness and the general feeling of floating as he gets up on his hands and knees to crawl up higher, looming over his master’s face. He can feel the Sorcerer’s powers slowly retreating from his mind, a slight panic sending the clawed hand to grasp the man’s shoulder and his own essence lurching forward to chase after him. “No… no nono, stay. Please? Stay inside me like this.” His words are clear and demanding and he subconsciously curls his fingers tighter, leaving shallow grazes with the tips of his claws.

“Hell and damnation, sugar, you’ll be the death of me one day.” The Sorcerer peeks through the fingers splayed over his face, eyebrows furrowed and the gold of his eyes swirling with barely contained fire. He certainly doesn’t sound even moderately concerned and so Rhys meets that with a smile blooming on his face in ten shades of overly-pleased. It widens a fraction more when Jack slams back into his consciousness, opening the connection and for once letting it be a two way thing, the apprentice’s own powers rising in waves before toppling over and spilling down the bond, dashing forward until they can level out and settle down with a friendly lick along the Sorcerer’s mind. The man’s eyes flutter closed as he tries to accustom himself to another presence curled just past the figurative doorstep but they snap open when the boy goes back to working himself down and over the hard flesh, eager and with little care for patience, softer grunts met with petulant grumble.

“I’ve unleashed a monster.” Rhys spares a glance over his shoulder in search of the aforementioned monster but having found none, his concentration drifts back to the tight fullness and the tremble of muscles against his palms. The expression on his master’s face is infinitely more entertaining than anything he has seen so far, prompting him to lazily haul himself up and down, a wash of double pleasure spiking in his guts bringing teeth to graze over the full of his lip.

There’s a tug at the back of his head, something curling at the nape of his neck and drawing from his own potential, steering his powers to make the red silk flit closer, skirting against his skin and coming to gently wrap around his throat. He can feel what the Sorcerer wants and -how- exactly he wants it, tilting his head when the pressure increases. Jack has once told him that a Sorcerer’s weapon can be used against them but he sure as hell doesn’t mind this particular man turning it against him simply because he’s working with it and not around it, having picked up on the tightness constricting Rhys’ breaths before, now turning it into something more tangible. It drags him up and the boy resists it only a little bit and only to feel it fit all the more snugly under his chin. A gentle flick of Jack’s armoured index fingers turns the tug that fraction more forceful, making the apprentice tether precariously on losing contact, raised awareness and raised on his knees. The second it eases, he’s dropping back, catching a long stranded hiss of air before the motion is repeated a couple of times, his lips growing cold from the lack of circulation when the chokehold doesn’t relent for a bit longer. 

-Now- he really has Jack where he wanted him, and that means -everywhere-, not a single part of him left untouched. The earlier solely physical contact, now joined by the barely there memory of an ache at the back of his throat and the straining grasp against the front of it, eyes rolling back again when the Sorcerer lets out a strained huff as he drops down again, with more force than previously, and with the man tangled helplessly and hopelessly into every thought sparking through the boy’s mind, sent tumbling through the bond and demanding acknowledgement. 

Leaning back, two sets of mismatched fingers dig into the flesh just above the Sorcerer’s knees and maybe he’d be a little bit more worried about the bruises bound to be left if he didn’t know how much his master enjoyed the arch of his heaving chest. He can feel Jack sifting through his feelings, gauging how long he can keep the air and blood flow cut of while still having him moderately conscious and Rhys strains to keep his wits about him as much as he can, trying to prolong every moment of mind-reeling light headedness. He grows a fraction prouder with each stretched second, making his master let out a sound dangerously close to a delighted giggle. 

A hand, bare of any defenses, moves to rest low over his stomach, pressing hard and turning the chafing against the spot sending sparks blooming behind his closed eyes, into something hardly bearable, a brush of sensitive flesh bouncing with each roll of his hips against Jack’s wrist nearly setting him off right there and then. The soft of his front has enough give that the man’s palm can sink a little deeper, bringing back memories of a promise to reach past the layer of skin, whispered into his ear and now prompting a louder response, even though the touch for now stays on the surface level, hard and unyielding and cranking the pressure up just so. He’s as eager to press into it as he’s eager to chase the fleeting sensation he craves oh so badly, knowing damn well how skilled Jack’s hand could be, giving carefully measured strokes and twisting around the tip. Just the thought of it makes him all the more feverish, clumsily trying to get that little bit more friction and bringing little growls between clipped breaths when he can’t get what he needs.

“Easy there lad, let me…” The man trails off with a louder huff and shoots him a crooked glare when Rhys purposefully lets his weight tug him down and drive Jack deeper in. “Fuck. Just. Lemme time it for ya.” His little misbehaving earns him a fist wrapping up tightly between his legs, staving off the imminent release and prompting a disappointed whine, barely pushing past the tightly coiled ribbon. 

He needs to work through the distant burning in his trembling thighs, the tug against his neck providing that little support without actually snapping it and he’s torn. Torn between too many sensations, that when a hand moving along the hard flesh is added to the mix, whatever coherence was left in him flies away with half choked, half keened words and wails. It’s almost there, making the still generally lax muscles pull completely taunt, vision blurred and all the noises drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears as the air isn’t allowed to dive into his lungs for far longer this time, quakes shaking his frame from head to toes and finally finding their way out between Jack’s fingers and landing against his front. 

This time when the soft silk lazily drifts down to settle down and over his collarbones, there is nothing supporting him upright and Rhys simply chooses to topple down, a tree with its roots severed, landing face first over the man below him. 

He hardly registers when he’s flipped over, mind too preoccupied with basking in the overwhelming feeling of limp muscles, the tingling warmth spreading even to the tips of his toes and the scratchy fabric of the linen sliding against his back. Not a single thought of protest on his blissed out mind, feeling the man move about him, in and out, his weight pinning Rhys down and hands nudging along the sides of his thighs to get a better grip.

Jack breaths something that sounds less like a command and more like a veiled plea into the dip where his jaw met the throat, the apprentice clumsily bringing his hands to offer a few dazed strokes along the hard surface of the man’s horns, half heartedly trying to line them with a fairly gentle if a little bit snappy roll of Jack’s hips. That seems to be doing the trick, two weaved together sources of pleasure, one taking out the need for the friction to grow harsher and more demanding out of the other.

The bite placed to the junction between his shoulder and neck is the very first thing that manages to push through the haze clouding his mind and actually -hurt-, bringing out a displeased grunt out of the apprentice even as the man above him finally comes to a still, a bright white burst blooming behind Rhys’ eyes when he gets a glimpse carried through the bond.   
When Jack finally simmers down, slow and lazy kisses smoothed over the deep bruise he has left, so do his powers their mellow ebb and flow reminding the apprentice of gentle waves brushing along the river bank on a quiet day and he only produces another sound when there’s an attempt to detangle them made. 

“Stay.” He wraps his legs tighter around the other man.  
 _Stay, please._ Even his powers stir once again to chase after the reluctantly retracting Sorcerer.

Jack huffs an amiable agreement and settles himself heavily over the boy underneath him, a purr shuddering in his chest when the touch over the smooth curve of his horns turns out to be as gentle as Rhys’ shaky fingers can manage.

“Can we…” the apprentice squirms a little bit more, slightly arching his spine and tries to clamp his muscles down, “...stay like this longer?” He’s trying to make a point here, a shallow rock of his hips given to illustrate his point.

“Child,” he guesses the Sorcerer would be glowering at him if the man wasn’t listlessly flopped on top of him “I can stay ‘like this’ however long I wish. Blood magic, remember?”

“So… can you wish to do it until I fall asleep?” Jack cracks one eye open and shoots him a surprised glance.

“Sure can, sugar. Got me worried for a little while you wanted another round.”

“Maybe in the morning.” The Sorcerer will start bitching at the stickiness turned into crustiness and the clinging and the dirty sheets come sunrise but Rhys will try to push his luck regardless, for now blissfully succumbing to the lulling feeling of belonging and safety, Jack’s powers and arms holding him as close as possible. 

He’s bound to have some vivid dreams, the drug working its way out of his system and the morning will find him once again sore all over, no amount of pleading making the Sorcerer agree to giving him another dose of sweet concoction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not even asking if it acctidentally didn't come across as dub-connish, i've poured to much time and care into it to avoid it lmao.


	13. Chapter 13

An excited ball of eagerness barrels through the castle, curtains flapping in its wake and candle flames dying out with a hiss. It’s his big day, the decision finally made and hell, he needs to look good for that. 

Jack finds his apprentice furiously digging through the sad collection of clothes the boy owned, various pieces of apparel strewn across the room and a shirt catches him in the face. Rhys is busy, oh so busy, the upper half of his body virtually disappearing inside one of the drawers as he claws about the space in search of whatever he’s looking for.   
Once Rhys spots his guest, a single sock hanging off the tip of his master’s horn, his form melts, wisps of dark smoke spilling on the floor and dashing forward to curl at Jack’s feet before it takes back on a solid shape, fists curled into the front of a leather jacket and two intent eyes boring into the squinted black pits staring back at him. It takes him a moment, a chant of the familiar name already formed on his lips, to pay closer attention to what he’s holding onto, breaking a stream of ‘Jack’s.

“It’s so nice...” The leather. Oh so nice and pristine and, unlike all of his own clothes, free of any holes or ink splatters. There still is a degree of self-preservation instincts swirling about his mind, just enough to not straight up yank onto the desired article of clothing and take it for himself. 

“What’s got you possessed this time?” The Sorcerer gruffs and huffs but makes no move to swat the hand now combing through the fluffed up feathers of his pauldrons. 

“I’d like to have some new clothes. Please?” By now, Rhys has learned when to push for more and when to turn his tail and run for his life. So far, his master looks more perplexed by the whole situation than disgruntled, so there’s no harm in trying to prod him a little bit more. By now, he has also learned a couple of tricks that are bound to get him what he wants, eyebrows knit together, a pout on his lips and a general dopey expression on his face, as subtle as he can manage and coupled with a gentle tilt of his head. Jack falls for it nearly every single time and he seems to fall for it this time, still on edge but apparently willing to at least not berate him outright.

“What for child? You’re getting ready for a date or something?” A hand sneaks to rest over his hip, warm fingers inching under the hem of his shirt and pressing into the skin a little firmer as he gives a noncommittal nod and a shrug. 

“I’m going to Hollow Point. -You-...”an accusatory finger jabs at the Sorcerer’s chest before the boy puff out his own chest, setting both of his hands at the waist and popping one hip. ”...are too stubborn to apologize for what you’ve done to Sasha so I’m taking it upon myself to defend your honor.”

Jack stares, nearly slack-jawed and, undoubtedly, in pure awe of his apprentice’s chivalry. 

“I shall apologize but make it look like you do not care, alright? But I’m also thinking, if I am to represent the mighty, Handsome Sorcerer, the looks have got to comply so... “ one more longing stare is spared towards the fine leather “... I will be needing something fancy.” Still not done with his demands, Rhys runs his hand through the messy hair and ends up twirling a longer strand curling against his neck between a forefinger and thumb. “And something needs to be done about -this-.” ‘This’ meaning a mop of hair, these days long enough that only thorough brushing can manage to put it into its usual, slicked back style. 

Silence hangs for a few moments longer before Jack’s jaw snaps back in place with an audible rattle, a long, stranded breath taken through his nose before the man unleashes a real cacophony of grumpy questions. Turns out, he isn’t as much awed as Rhys has assumed.

“First of all, stupid thing, start with ‘Master, -may- I, please, go to that shitty village’. Second of all, I do -not- care. Third of all don’t think I can’t see you trying to charm me. Fourth of all…” Jack’s counting his complains on his fingers and by the time he runs out of them, both hands now menacing raised, he wraps his rant up with a ‘so why today of all days’.

“The weather seems nice so I’m thinking, why not today…” An indescribable look crosses Jack’s face but the apprentice pays little mind to it, too engrossed into trying to figure out how to get his way with the other man. He’s pondering his options, dropping to his knees and openly begging being one of them, and throwing himself on the Sorcerer to forcefully rub his body all over his victim and purr his plea, another. Settling on the middle ground, Rhys hooks one of his fingers into the other’s vest, a small, shy smile playing on his lips. “So… may I please, please please go … master?” The title is drawled out, curling around the rasp of his voice and chased with a fleeting gaze when he momentarily tears his eyes from the spot just left to one of Jack’s boots, eyes flicking up to meet a puzzled stare.   
Without a fail, hands return to rest just over the waistband of his trousers, prompted by a slight angle of his neck when he tilts his head just -so-, throat that fraction more exposed, and mismatched eyes half hidden under lowered lashes as he gently worries his teeth over lower lip. He knows it does -things- to the Sorcerer, doesn’t know what things exactly, doesn’t care particularly. As long as it gets him what he wants, Rhys can play along Jack’s fancies. Besides, the touch, bordering on bruising, that holds him close, and the way the other man gravitates closer, subconsciously slanting the curve of his body to match Rhys’ is a another level of magic in and on itself. It works, of course it does, the heat of another intermingling with his own but the Sorcerer’s mind doesn’t seem to be all the way in the present, eyebrows set at an angle as the man appears to be intently thinking. Eventually, a solution seems to have been found and a wolfish grin tugs the corners of Jack’s lips up, a row of sharp teeth catching a flicker of light.

“Of course you may, sugar. So tell me, what kind of clothes would you fancy?” It’s nearly suspicious, the ease with which the man has agreed but the apprentice figures there’s nothing to fear from his master, the teasing tone attributed to his mischievous nature. All the more so when the hands at his hips give the lightest of tugs to bring them closer, a gentle sway taking them both. Jack moves his fingers so they can dance just over the laces keeping the boy’s pants fastened, his touch skimming over the surface and brushing against the soft curls of hairs trailing down the middle of his belly. The Sorcerer playfully walks his fingers up, nudging the two halves of his shirt aside until they arrive just below Rhys navel and only then does he lift his gaze to shoot a crooked grin his way, eyes crinkling in the corners when the sly act gets him a soft gasp. “Mmmh? What is it? Some fancy clothing you said? How about this, …” After all this time, Jack’s powers feel like home and safety and the tiniest bit of hot but their familiarity can easily manage to put the boy in his happy place. Just like right now, when the patchwork of sewn and re-sewn holes he likes to call his clothes melts away to turn into rich velvet and abundance of laces, a fur trim tickling along the skin of his neck. “...something regal. You like it boy?”

Oh yes he does. Totally and absolutely and Rhys thinks he’d make a fine prince, even though he cannot exactly see how he looks like right now, the material feels absolutely amazing, the appreciative look shot his way tipping him off that the sentiment is shared . He nods and follows that with a delighted giggle, drowned out with a huff when another change occurs, heavy weight making his knees buckle.

“What about a nice sturdy armour child? Ever wanted to be a knight?”

Rhys whines his displeasure, the plates already beginning to chafe along the insides of his arms and over his collarbones, his awkward wobble making the front of the heavy helmet snap closed and his protests take on a metallic tinge.

“What? Too heavy? Aren’t you a picky one…” The pressure eases and he’s blinking the discomfort away, soft silks now scantily enveloping his body. His ears burn, bright eyes roaming over his own body, taking in the flowy material that barely clings to his hips and the cuffs around his wrists that keep the sheer fabric loosely wrapped around his arms, the majority of it bunched at his chest. It… uncovers more than it covers, somehow more indecent than simple nudity in the way it less than tastefully lets more crucial parts of his body peek from between the folds, gold chainlinks sneaking down the length of his body to join just above his groin. 

Jack is clearly having fun at his expense, making the clothes change a couple more times, each and every next swap all the more outrageous, Rhys eventually ending up with a tricorn hat adorned with a flimsy feather and a chainmail bra sadly hanging over his chest.

“Oh come on kitten, let the old man have some fun.” The Sorcerer is borderline giddy, flicking him on the nose and earning an unimpressed glare in return. The finished look isn’t however nearly half that bad, much more closely resembling his usual getup, all holes mended without a trace and a shiny new greave and cuisse protecting his right leg. He’s all the more delighted when a fresh pair of gloves and a red shawl are deposited onto his hands, the old set torn and stained with blood after his last encounter with the witch hunters.

All that’s left is getting his hair in check, Jack taking far longer than usual, carefully running his fingers through the dark hair, teasing out any potential knots and then probably teasing out all the knots that haven’t yet formed, the soft click and clack of the sheers quickly lulling the boy into a more subdued state. Rhys certainly isn’t going to oppose the extra attention, finding everything he needs in quiet moments like this, with the powerful man’s attention concentrated on him alone, and getting spoiled rotten. He makes a mental note to find a way to return the favour once he’s back at the castle, perhaps there will be something worthwhile at the market in the town and if that fails, Jack has never said no extra clean floors so getting down and dirty on his knees to scrub them is also on the menu.

-II-

Jack watches his boy eagerly flit around the castle, grabbing a couple of pastries before he stuffs them into the pocket of his trousers, icing already marring the fabric, and dashing down the spiral staircase to the bowels of the building to wave Angel goodbye. There is a nasty smirk playing on his lips, hands folded at the small of his back as he lets his thoughts drift idly. Fuck, but all he wishes for is to grab the kid and slam it against the nearest wall, to hear a strangled gasp push between those plump lips and to feel trembles wrecking through that willing body. He’d be perfectly happy to tear the boy into tiny pieces, taking him apart and taking every scattered fragment of his mind for himself. The Sorcerer likes playing with his toys, all the more when they are so enthusiastic, despite the annoying cockiness, this one is always begging for more. There is the tiniest bit of regret, mostly that he will need to waste another century or so before anything this keen on virtually shoving itself into his greedy grasp and leaving itself at his complete mercy stumbles his way, and that makes something turn over in his stomach. 

He craves this damn mortal but there are other things he craves and the split second decision he has made today isn’t allowed the benefit of doubt. Maybe Jack will feel a pang of unsatisfied longing years from now, buried balls deep inside of a whore he’ll pay for and maybe he will question his own reasons tomorrow when there won’t be anyone to sneak into his bed to just lay curled there, the familiar rhythm of quiet breaths, hitching with a soft gasp when he’d move to card his fingers through tousled hair and soothing him into laziness. But that’s fine, maybe he’ll regret that but right now he’s burning with self-righteousness, justifying his decision to the less rational side of his consciousness over and over again. 

Not in the habit of denying himself little pleasures, the Sorcerer finally gives in, crossing the courtyard in clipped strides to meet his apprentice at the gate, wordlessly tugging him back and into his arms. The surprised huff bumps into his own hungry lips, swallowed down when the Sorcerer closes the distance with an impatient growl. Rhys might have almost immediately melted into his touch but it still wasn’t soon enough, sharp bites prompting that quiver he sometimes needs more than air. The boy tastes sweet, of course, he has managed to dig into his stash of travel snacks even before leaving the castle and Jack thinks he detests this little greedy thing all the more, insistent tongue trying to lap at the lingering sweetness and wash it away.   
Thumbs sweep over flushed cheeks, one hand tangling into perfectly styled hair to give a yank and the Sorcerer grows even annoyed when there’s no resistance, nothing to hang onto to vent the underlying frustration. A single thought that could vaguely resemble defiance would be enough to set him off, send into mindless rage and that would be oh so very much desired, because anger is easy and anger gets things done. Sentiments however, sentiments make you push your face into the crook of some idiot’s neck, prolonging the moment before parting. Sentiments are not good and so Jack eventually huffs out a bitter curse, for a second longer letting his fingers skim over the smooth skin peeking over the collar, before he takes a step back, an idle wave of his hand given to the promise of a quick return and an even more ridiculous promise of a gift brought back. The fingers of his other hand however, hidden behind his back, curl all the tighter around a strip of red silk.

-II-

The town isn’t very far, maybe a three hour long trip, his trek eventually clocking at full four hours due to all the little breaks he takes. A good half of them is devoted to finding small clearings so he can enjoy his lunches in peace, local wildlife poking their snouts from between the bushes to curiously watch the familiar guest plop himself down on an upturned trunk or a mossy rock.

Rhys shares, although slightly begrudgingly, some of the sweets with an overly friendly bear, the beast about his height even when on all fours. He has vague memories of the village folk being dead scared of the forest surrounding the Sorcerer’s castle, the fauna said to be hostile but now, those silly superstitions are only making him spare a haughty laugh. Man, can masses of uneducated peasants be easily led to believe even the dumbest shit. The forest inhabitants are everything but dangerous provided one left them in peace. And maybe bore the mark of the lord of these lands but that escapes the boy’s attention. They all are drawn to his abilities and in return for the dubious joys of furry company, he leaves the bear with the clearing blooming with blueberry shrubs, a light prod from his powers making the flowers quickly give way to ripe berries. 

He’s at the edges of the wilderness, last couple of trees separating him from the human world and the bustling mortals going about their daily duties. How he has grown to despise them, sans for the girl he has met in the woods, their ilk holds little of his interest, no regard for his own status as one of them given. The apprentice thinks he has surpassed their level of mundanity long ago. 

Fixing the hood of his scarf over his head all the more snuggly, Rhys calls forth some of his powers, idly letting them take on whatever shape will first pop in his mind and soon enough he has an armful of freshly picked flowers. Some of them are native to these lands, some come from the books he has read and some are just happy figments of his imagination. 

-II-

Hollow Point turns out to be a giant disappointment, larger than the town Jack took him to once, bordering on nearly earning the title of a ‘city’ for itself, probably still missing it only because there was no reigning constable to claim it. With size came intense stench, narrow and cluttered streets dirty with human and animal waste and Rhys has to stop at least -three- times to wipe his boots when he steps into yet another disgusting puddle. He’ll be making sure to burn this pair down once he’s back at the castle.  
For now however, he weaves his way through alleys, between the carts headed for the market, and around the clutches of gossiping people, offensively standing between him and his destination. Getting elbowed by one of the gruff patrons of the nearby tavern brings Jack, the man’s presence skirting at the edges of his mind and prompting him to give into his anger and need for vengeance, a distant howl of his laughter dissipating in the thin air when they both deck the surprised brute straight in the face. 

By the time he reaches the slums, looking for that one door Sasha has described to him once, he’s looking a little bit worse for wear, his hair out of place and bright red of his shawl marred with specks of dirt sprayed by the hooves of horses when a small contingent of soldiers rushed across the square. He, however, is still bravely holding onto a couple of flowers that have survived a run-in with a fairly drunk and overly-friendly crowd, mangled stems clutched in his gloved hand. 

Stopping by a non-descript doorstep, third from the left and right counting from the corner, Rhys runs his hand through his hair, bringing some order to it, clears his throat and fixes the material of his pants, clinging a little bit too tightly to his backside for his liking, courtesy of his master no doubt, and raises a fist to knock on the door.   
Before he gets the chance to do so, a heavy grip lands against his shoulder.

“You have to be the least inconspicuous burglar I have seen.” Humans. Loathsome creatures, even if they are kinda good looking if hella pissed off and donning a tipped hat and a shirt that shows just the right amount of cleavage.

“I am no burglar! Leave me be, I’m here on important business.” He likes the snobbish tone of his voice, rightfully earned if you were to ask the apprentice. Which you shouldn’t least you are looking for a monologue on his dubious superiority. “I’m here to see Sasha and her sister, heard they were quite the big deal around this part of the town.” Rhys is already starting to turn his nose up on whatever response he’s about to get but what he, in fact, is getting, is a swift blow delivered to his throat and an angry snarl.

“You that scum that has been fooling around with my kid sister?” 

“Yes? Maybe? No? Which answer won’t get me another punch?” At the very least, he’s trying to put a protective barrier between him and his attacker, the hand still holding onto wilting remains of a bouquet raised defensively. 

The door creaks open and then there finally is a face he recognizes, the flowers quickly changing direction to be presented in all their crumpled glory and nearly shoved into the girl’s face.

“Sasha! Hey, I…” He doesn’t get to finish his carefully crafted apologies before a fist knocks him out cold.

-II-

“... shouldda just kick him out and give ‘im to the guards. Seems like that man is trouble.”

Voices come in and out of his hearing range as his consciousness drifts back and soon enough, Rhys finds himself splayed on the floor, clearly dragged inside of the building if the streak of mud trailing from him to the door is anything to go by. Left side of his face hurts, as does the right side of his neck but it has nothing on the mean punches Jack could pack so he figures he’ll live.

“Hey asshole, you awake?” Eventually hauling himself into a sitting position, the apprentice lets an affirmative hum build at his lips as his eyes slowly move over the room he’s in.

The hat girl is still here so he can assume she has to be Fiona, the cake baking sister Sasha spoke of before. She sounded nicer in the stories. The place is fairly small, cramped and stuffed with useless things, a small kitchenette with fire cheerfully crackling in the hearth, flames licking at the bottom of a pot hanging over it, a delicious smell wafting through the air, an open space which holds a worktop and a larger table in the center and he can just about spot two narrow beds in the far end, separated from the main area with a tattered cloth hanging from the ceiling. It’s only once his gaze lands on a banged kettle placed on top of the table that his face bursts into a bright smile, the busted corner of his mouth cracking open. The flowers he has brought have apparently been carefully collected and placed in the impromptu vase. So there’s his chance to make things right

He’s about to open his mouth and finally deliver that apology speech he has meticulously prepared but it’s once again interrupted, this time his own stomach betraying the unfortunate apprentice as a loud growl breaks the sudden silence. A morose glance is spared towards the bubbling stew but the sisters ignore him for now, another couple of growls and glances stolen finally prompting Fiona to forcefully slam three steaming plates of goodness on the table and reluctantly extent and invitation to join them.

Rhys gets the chance to stammer out his due apologies around mouthfuls of scalding hot, leathery meat, and he quietly thinks that while the meals Jack summons for him are heavenly, he also thinks he has never tasted anything this good before. Despite the initial hostility, Fiona soon seems to warm up to him, asking about his life at the castle, particularly interested in the riches carelessly buried in the pits of it, her interest instantly picked when she hears that Jack can turn virtually anything into pure gold. All three of them share a moment of remorseful silence when he tells them he cannot do that just yet.   
Devoid of any human contact for so long, and never the sharpest tool in the shed in the first place, Rhys completely misses the fact that the sisters are trying to scam him, all too happy for the conversation they are holding to keep going. He ends up roped into making more flowers bloom and later, as he slumps down after his third helping to the stew, belly full and warm all over, he listens half heartedly to their grand plan of setting up a small florist shop to sham rich snobs out of their coin. 

The apprentice thinks he likes the sisters, they are cunning but Sasha is friendly enough and Fiona, once she relaxes slightly and deems him completely harmless, starts giving off that sisterly aura. It’s not until much later that his mood gets soured.

“So. Rhys.” The older sister crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him down the length of her nose. “How are you planning on getting out of the city? Cause you sure as hell ain’t staying here for the night.”

“Same way I got in? Through the main gate, don’t see a problem here.” Unless he’s missing something and it looks like he -is- missing something, a more nervous glance shared between the two women.

“You can’t be that dumb. The main gate has been locked since high noon. The hunters are here for their monthly sweep. Everybody knows that.”

Apparently not everybody because Rhys clearly didn’t and Jack mustn’t have known either if he had let him come. 

“Well, I’ll just hide and if need be, I can fight off a couple of lousy hunters.” Despite his boastful words, cold sweat begins breaking at the small of his back. It’s not the witch hunters he’s worried about though, but rather, the tentative alliance with the sister’s that may be in danger as he’s quite positive that given free hand, between Jack’s help and the parasite’s abilities, he would decimate the third of the town’s population in a couple of minutes. Hunters included. 

“It’s not just ‘a couple of lousy hunters’, Hollow Point is situated just on the outskirts of the Cursed Woods, there’s plenty of magic freaks coming through the place so the knight commander usually sends a whole squadron.” Sasha is sending a knowing look towards her sister, seemingly more than a little bit concerned with his well-being. “They will rummage through the stands at the market and most of the building until they stumble across some unfortunate idiot who looks magick-ey enough to burn them on the stakes and call it a day however.”

Rhys runs over his options, technically, he could shift into anything that would carry him on its wings over the town’s walls but that amount of magic was bound to have the hunters right on his ass. But ‘technically’ isn’t enough to risk having a whole squadron chasing after him, even though he’s not exactly sure how many people one consisted of, the tone of Sasha’s voice indicating ‘a lot’. And if he were to not make it over the walls, well, look point a) evil hands and point b) evil hellhounds devouring the place.

So that leaves only one solution and with a grumble, the apprentice gets up to his feet.

“Then I’ll find a place to wait it out and leave first thing in the morning.” He takes a hesitant step towards the door, quietly hoping that the sisters would offer shelter.

They don’t, not because they don’t want to, although their intent is still unclear, but because there is a rapid knock on the door and a stern command to open it. 

“Hunters catch this idiot here we’ll be assumed accomplices.” Fiona is already bouncing up, tossing his empty plate into a nearby bucket with dirty crockery and Sasha forces him deeper into their place, ushering the apprentice to crawl under one of the beds. 

It’s tight and dusty and he doesn’t dare to sneeze, huddled in the tiny space and doing everything he can to melt into the shadows. Rhys can hear latch getting unlocked and the creak of the door, just about picking up on three pairs of metal studded boots entering the main area. A flicker of light catches into the mismatched set of eyes, making them nearly glow in the darkness in a similar manner wild cats’ did, his pupils turned into slits and the apprentice holds his breath, listening to the conversation just a couple of feet away from him.

“And just where did you ladies found such exquisite flowers?” The voice is gruff but dropping into an annoying pitch when its owner tries to sound charming, his words making something in the pit of Rhys’ stomach churn with disgust. 

“A travelling trinket seller, sir.” Fiona’s words are calm and collected and the apprentice feverishly wishes he could share her cool headedness right now.

“Squire!” He can see the smallest set of boots shuffling closer to the table, the man wearing them clearly called forward by the owner of that aggravating tone. “Does that look like innocent flowers to you? They surely hadn’t been grown around these parts of the kingdom”

“Well, if I may…” The voice! He knows it. He has heard it a thousand times before and the last time it sounded so broken and distressed the very memory of it brings a small whimper to his lips. This can’t be happening and yet it is, him, stuffed in the crampy space under a narrow bed and with hay sticking from underneath the mattress constantly tickling his ears with every movement, and Vaughn, just a short distance away getting bossed around by some -jerk-. 

“Sir! Sir hunter, you cannot be implying…” Fiona cuts into the conversation, her words slightly muffled as if she was holding a hand over her mouth, which she’s undoubtedly doing. “... that this is some work of black magic! The horror!” She sounds positively scandalized and Rhys would be having a hearty laugh at her exaggerated tone if his situation wasn’t so dire.

The man in charge quickly starts reassuring the ‘fair ladies’ that whoever sold them those cursed flowers will be dealt with, asking about the stranger’s details and humming along as if he knew exactly who the wiry old man with a beard that went on for miles she describes, was. He almost lets himself be fooled into the false hope until the third hunter decides to chime in, her voice decisive and tinged with that take-no-bullshit attitude.

“Vaughn, you were saying…?”

“Yeah… well. They hadn’t been grown around these parts of the kingdom, nor any others for that matter. These flowers should not exist.” Rhys knows that Vaughn knows, he knows and he hates that the situation his dumb stupidity has put them into, a small mistake and now he’ll be paying the big price for letting his imagination run wild while bringing his creations to life. 

“How would you know?” He’s nearly trembling with anticipation, his powers bubbling just beneath his skin, coiled in and on themselves and begging to be released.

“I know because they are a part of the design inveterate to the village I was born in. We were know for embroidery, just around the Southern Ridge, never made a name for ourselves any farther but nearby settlements would trade with us, enough to let us survive the winter. And there has been only one other survivor of the massacre.”

Rhys bolts from his hiding space, between the legs of surprised knights and through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhys, rhysie, no, don't trust that bitch


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jesus this has been a monster of a chapter to get out but it flowed really nicely, nice enough that i had to draw a line at 6k words lmao. which turns all my plans for the next one upside down. Oh well, we'll see kids, tune in sometime next week for some more of that delicious heartbreak :^)

It’s easy to understand why his apprentice seemed to favour the eastern battlement, with it’s breathtaking view and the gentle gust of wind tugging at the flaps of his coat, there’s peace of mind to be found here, even as Jack seats himself down, swinging his legs over the edge to kick them idly.

The slowly setting sun washes his skin with the warmth of early autumn and as he watches a couple of stray leaves dance in the wind, a strip of red silk curls over his shoulder. The material still carries some of its owner’s will and powers, keen on pleasing and eagerly sliding along the exposed skin of his neck at the slightest of his commands. There’s nothing really pressing to do right now, no issues to resolve, no apprentices to feed and it feels like the time is standing still as he waits and waits. 

The ribbon brushes along the curl of one of his horns in a memory of a gentle touch and the Sorcerer lets a sigh and then a small moan build on his lips as the fabric follows his wishes, slinking lower and between the folds of his clothes. He’s got an ache in his chest and a throb in his loins and he knows how to quell at least one of those two.

It’s not until much later that the material loosely draped over his shoulder bounces back to life, flitting left and right as it struggles between the call of its owner and the hold Jack’s powers have on it. So it’s time, and the Sorcerer lets his eyes fall shut, reaching forward with his powers, first through the bond linking him to his boy but reeling back when the image travelling back makes his head spin. It’s scrambled and jerky as if the owner of the eye he’s trying to peek through was running, and Jack suspects that’s exactly the case. That’s fine however, he has eyes and ears in every corner of the kingdom.

-II-

A crow, old and achy, responds to the call of the master, and its eyes, clouded with cataract, take on a golden hue as it lazily circles over a nameless town. More of its brethren gathers on the rooftops surrounding the slums, anticipation of a meal soon to come with spilled blood drawing them closer. They caw in unison, their masters pure delight pulsing through the mass as they all watch a slim figure dart through the door of a crumbling down building, chased by people clad in heavy armour and brandishing all kinds of weapons. He, a male as it notices with idle interest, barely a hatchling out of its nest, dashes through narrow streets, unaware of the trap he’s about to run into, a group of knights gathered on the square and waiting for their prey to fall into the false security of empty alleys.

The crow tilts its head at the sight of clawed fingers skimming over the hatchling’s neck, in search of something and it knows, doesn’t understand, but -knows-, that whatever he’s looking for, belongs to the master and has been taken away. The human form melts into a wispy smoke, billowing between its enemies’ legs and quickly turning into something smaller, long ears flat against narrow skull and long legs taking the scared herbivore past a couple of carts that have been dragged together to cut off an escape route. Humans yell and scream, their voices sharp and grating on the flock’s collective mind, some of the knights vaulting over the carts to continue their pursuit and then needing to duck when thick stalks sprout from the ground in wake of the Sorcerer’s belonging’s pawsteps. Golden eyes never lose track of their target, watching as the hare’s shape spills into black mist again. 

It tries to dive under one of the stands at the market but the scared baker chases it away, uncertainty and fear visible in the way it coils in on itself. 

It tries to climb up the wall, claws of a domestic cat not sharp or skilled enough to help it haul itself over the windowsill. 

It, upon running into a circle of witch hunters again, their hateful spells whizzing left and right, finally makes the right decision, two waves rising before they reshape into rounded wings, sharp, eagle-like beak making the crows raise ruckus at the imminent danger of a nearby predator. At first it stumbles on two, long, unsteady legs, hooked claws of a secretary bird sliding against the stone in search of some purchase and the longer plumes at the back of its head bristle as it slowly becomes cornered by the hunters. It tries to take flight, wings furiously beating when an armoured hand wraps around one of its legs, excitement thrumming through the flock at the sight, and a couple of knights begin chiming their dispelling chant. 

Human hatchling drops to the ground, weakly struggling against the grip and the restraints slipped around his arms and neck.

-II-

Rhys wakes up with a groan, trying to rub his eyes and with a complaint to his master about a terrible dream already forming on his lips when he finds himself unable to move his arms. He jerks at the memory of swords and daggers swinging at him, conveniently steering off course when he tried to protect himself with his non-human arm. Same people who tried to clearly hack his head off, are gathered around him right now, the bright light of numerous candles lighting the place up and making his eyes sting. Nobody, however, pays attention to his angry hisses and growls, the scowl on his face momentarily melting into something more dopey as he spots a familiar face in the distance, but Vaughn avoids looking at him, standing in the corner and nervously thumbing at the weapons strapped to his sides. Twin daggers, dandy, Rhys thinks.

Taking stock of his situation, the apprentice notices that he has been strapped down to a T-shaped, wooden mechanism, positioned vertically and with chains, if the clinking behind his back is any indicator, holding it in the air. For now, the device is lowered down so he’s mostly resting on his knees, arms tied to the opposite ends of the horizontal bar and most of his weight supported by the restraints holding him up.

There are bindings, gleaming in the dark and against the black skin of his right arm, making the parasitic entity keep eerily if rather unwillingly quiet, although, as he quickly discovers, the pure, physical strength is still there, the arm flexing before it rips the ropes futilely trying to hold it down. Claws are already reaching towards his neck and torso to rip the rest of the ropes, quickly changing direction when a witch hunter who notices the movement earns himself the dubious privilege of having his eyes clawed out when he gets too close. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the screams that follow but preens at the imaginary praise he can nearly hear lavished over him and slipping from his master’s narrow lips.

It takes four of them, a couple of busted ribs, bruises blooming on Rhys’ flank, sharp nails digging into whatever soft tissue they can get a hold onto, and angry spells slinking through the still air, for them to wrestle him into submission again, their hexes settling down like a suffocating mist over his mind and burning his skin raw.

This time, manacles, weaved with more spiteful magic, wrap around his wrist and no amount of furious flailing and barked curses yields any effect, the spikes running down the length of his arm rattling uselessly against the wood.

“Child…” On of the hunters, dressed in the most ornate armour and robes, moves closer and Rhys thinks that he hates being called that word. Not by someone under the age of a hundred at the very least. He snarls at the man, swinging his legs from underneath himself in hopes of maybe reaching his adversary with a kick, the chains groaning under his flailing weight. 

They chain his legs down too.

“Child…” The man has been addressed as the Knight Commander and seems to be in charge of this gathering of self-righteous pricks. His voice is deceptively calm, even as his fingers dig into the sides of Rhys’ chin to hold him still. “Can you speak child? Or has your master forgot to teach you manners?” 

Oh he knows his manners alright, a couple of clips around his head quickly teaching him to chew with his mouth closed and that one time he had to clean up dragon dung with his bare hands, a lesson in polite ‘yes master’s, ‘no master’s and ‘please master’s. But the people here deserve none of those so the apprentice only meets the words with a snap of his teeth and a low rumble that turns into a loopy giggle.

“What is your name?” The man only sighs at his antics but it’s easy to notice that they are making the rest of the people in the room antsy.

“It’s Rhys, sir.” A huntress chimes in, pure, unadulterated hatred dripping from her lips and he can see Vaughn only ducking his head lower and hunching his shoulders.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” The Knight Commander isn’t a nice person like Jack, the apprentice concludes. “All right, Reese, here’s your situation.” Turns out they have dragged him, and his supposed partners in crime, to a fortress. Ancient old and adopted by the order as their stronghold, the memories of some boring lecture his master made him suffer through, supply. The man tells him a couple of days have passed and that explains the hunger rumbling in his stomach but they must have kept him at least well hydrated because right now he’s happily salivating, letting foam drip down his chin with much gusto, simply to fuel their fear. Also because his thoughts briefly drifted back to the castle and to the stash of sweets he has hidden under his pillow. That little reminder has him struggling against the protective hexes surrounding the fortress, sending a polite if a little urgent question to his master, asking when he will be coming because Rhys, quite frankly, is a wee bit hungry and he finds the witch hunters’ company rather sordid. 

Jack doesn’t respond, his mind and powers retracted far enough that the apprentice’s own life force can barely brush along them. That’s fine, he thinks, he’s made his point and all that’s left, is to wait everything out.

With his attention back to the people around him, the crowd bustling about the room to strengthen their defences as they pick up on a spike of evil powers around them, panicked when they can’t find what it was aimed at, Rhys lets an idle yawn stretch his lips.

On the flipside, they have mostly concentrated on the malicious force residing in his right arm, and on the Sorcerer’s magic weaved into his skin, probably having deemed Rhys himself as harmless enough, and although the bindings prevent him from dropping his corporeal shape to slink between the cracks in the floor and escape, some of his powers, innate to his persona, still spark with weak enthusiasm. There’s nothing he can do however, not right now and not tied up like this, one eyebrow shooting up in a mocking expression as he watches the Knight Commander pick up a small pair of pliers from a table littered with various instruments.

Oh this is just laughable, and although he struggles against the grip in his hair keeping his head locked in place, a crooked smile tugs the corners of his lips up.

As the man leans closer to examine his face, Rhys once again snaps his teeth in his direction, and then, clearing his throat first, he finally speaks, voice brilliantly clear in the sudden silence.

“Pathetic. Quite the small set you have got here Knight Commander.” His tongue subconsciously darts to prod at the healed gums before it moves to slowly drag over his upper lip. “Can tell you the Sorcerer is … more well-endowed.” 

They stare in morbid silence as the man backhands him, blood from his split lip staining the metal.

Fools, Rhys thinks, there is nothing they could do to him Jack hasn’t already done.

Fool, Rhys will later think of himself later.

The tongs aren’t meant for his teeth, a loud clink drowned out with his gasp as they lock around one of the crystals growing at his left temple. The Knight Commander gives a strong yank, something venomous and -holy-, wrapping around the stone like a barbed wire, and the first link connecting him back to his master breaks with a sick crunch. Rhys howls with pure anger, words of most vile curses he knows slipping between harsh breaths. The man works with unnerving patience and diligence, pulling shrapnel from his skin and bone, crushing one crystal after another and soon enough curses turn into a single name, reverberating against the high ceiling of the chamber and making some of the less seasoned hunters jerk with every blood-thirsty yell. 

He’s alone, alone in his head without the familiar presence at his side and without the possibility to call upon his trusty hell hounds. Once the grip holding his head up releases, his head slumps down, tears of pain and sorrow dripping from his eyes and a single droplet of sweat rolling down his temple stings as it mixes with the blood of the open wound. There’s a persistent smell of blood and sweat and fear in the air, the last one coming off of the hunters more than from him as the apprentice is more busy wallowing in self pity, his hunger and the loneliness, to fully grasp his grave situation and let real, bone-deep fear settle in just yet.

They aren’t done with him just yet, a chest, encrusted with gems and wards holding whatever laid inside contained. The spiteful glare he’s shooting his oppressor turns into a wide-eyed stare as the chest’s content is revealed. Pitch-black metal rimmed with pure gold, the webbings of familiar markings etched into the gauntlet. It’s Jack’s, he can sense it from the other end of the chamber, and even though his heart drops at the sight, a strange sense of calmness settles into his trembling limbs. 

Upon closer inspection, he can see that it’s rusty and matted with age, his master’s belonging, probably lost or taken away years and years ago. The apprentice can’t help a maniacal chuckle that hisses through his swollen lips as he watches the Knight Commander replace the one he’s currently wearing, a part of his armour dropped and the divine blessings are replaced with sacrilegious curses. Plates snap in place, locking tightly and digging painfully into the flesh, acting as if on their own accord, the buckle fastening itself just below the man’s wrist and cutting off some of the blood flow. Oh how the holy knight must hate using it, the thought fills Rhys with giddy apprehension.

“See child…” The Knight Commander flexes his fingers, the metal grating against itself and the man hisses at the chafing. “... we can help you. We can make a right, upstanding citizen out of you. But that is, provided you do not carry the taint inside of you. And to know that… we need to take a closer look what it is, that’s -inside- of you, right?”

He can see Vaughn trying to escape the room, one of the older knights dragging him back, and that, more than boastful words, tells him that maybe he should be a little bit more worried. 

That would be a prime time for Jack to show up, he thinks.

“We don’t wield the Handsome Sorcerer’s magic often, so consider yourself privileged.” The familiar claw drags in a nearly intimate fashion down the side of his neck, his heartbeat speeding reflexively, and down to his chest to work the laces of his shirt undone. “I’d say you seem to be quite enjoying yourself, hm?” Rhys only replies with a harder slant of his eyes and lips curled over front teeth, his grimace growing all the more strained when the hand shoots up, digging under his chin so he cannot turn his head away from that loathsome face. “Tell me, has the Sorcerer been inside of you? Has he left a piece of himself there?” 

A half-choked gasp escapes his lips as a sharp point digs right under his sternum, a knife, a brief glance stolen towards his exposed chest confirming his suspicion, digs into his flesh, leaving a vertical cut, slashing through skin, muscles and the protective lining shielding the internal organs. 

Jack always tells him to let it all out, clearly pleased with his cries but somehow, the company of the witch hunters makes him want to do the opposite of that, biting back the scream building in his throat and biting back the bile rising along the noise. 

His vision begins swimming, the lack of comforting touch along his consciousness sending his brain into an overdrive of fear, spiked with every breath making his chest expand and tug at the broken skin. He can’t help but feel grateful as darkness starts building in the corners of his perception.

“Lift him up and make sure he doesn’t pass out.” Someone smears something over his upper lip, strong, irritating smell of ammonia filling his nose and dragging him kicking and screaming back into the reality, the reality of having his whole weight hang limply against the bindings, feet now uselessly dangling just above the ground.

“Now child, don’t struggle too much, you don’t want anything accidentally spilling, do you?” No, no, no, no, he doesn’t and as the sticky and disgusting pads of the man’s fingers skim over the edges of the wound, Rhys completely freezes, staring in horror when the sharp tips dip inside, breaching some unspoken limits.

He wants to struggle, get free, run away from here because what the Knight Commander is doing to him… it’s Jack’s, promised long ago and still not taken but claimed nonetheless, a twisted version of his non-existent virginity.   
He wants to scream his throat raw and that’s what he does.

The sudden tightness is unbearable, lungs squeezed with every shaking breath when the hand delves deeper, now buried to the last knuckle and the greedy fingers paw inside of him, searching for something. The metal of the gauntlet hurts him, rubbing uncomfortably against the underside of his ribs, the internal bleeding getting more severe with each loathsome wriggle. 

The Knight Commander digs further, blood running over his wrist, down the forearm to drip from his elbow. As he finally finds what he’s been looking for, Rhys’ heart stutters against the painful grip, words of frightened protest slipping past quivering lips, quickly turning into more horrified yells when there is a yank, something inside of him snapping and he watches the hand, now clutching onto something he thinks -is- vital, start retracting. 

He passes out, a couple of times, the smelling salts rubbed into his skin forcing him back into full consciousness over and over again, and the view before him is as eerie as it is leaving him completely unnerved. The convulsing muscle, clenching rhythmically in a double manner, is still making the rush of blood in his ears drown out all of the other sounds and as he watches his own heart held in a clawed hand, he feels like it shouldn’t be possible. But it is, the familiar pulse of power in his suddenly empty chest making him shudder with every wave surging through his body and keeping him alive. 

“Huh?” Through haze of confusion, only one thought makes it to the surface, lazily swimming over the scrambled words whirling about his mind. “Thought I left that at the castle.”

He’s hurting, and scared beyond his wits and the only thing that makes sense to him is the small bubble of laughter echoing through the unwanted space between his ribs, a response to a bad joke and a way to ease some of the tension threatening to tear him apart.

“So? Is it here?” The Knight Commander hisses around his clenched teeth, showing the detached organ to a group of witch hunter’s clerics flocking to his side. They crowd the man, poking and prodding but eventually pull back with disappointed shakes of their hooded heads.

“You’re lucky child, or unlucky, depending on how skewed your morals are, the Sorcerer hasn’t picked you for a host…” Yeah. He knows. They could have just asked (they did). And Rhys is still mildly bitter about this fact, feeling unworthy of whatever it was that Jack was offering.

“Patch him up.” The heart, his heart, he has to remind himself, is being shoved back into its rightful place, with even less care than it was ripped out with and the deplorable man is turning on his heel to stomp out of the room.

-II-

The feral animal he has seen last night could not possibly be the man he used to call his friend. And yet, he still finds himself dragging his feet, studded heels of his boots rapping through empty halls a hesitant staccato, as he slinks through the shadows curled in the corners of the dungeons located beneath the stronghold. With little interest, he passes the holding cell keeping the two girls, humans, non magic and as far as he knows, largely innocent, until he comes to a halt before heavy door, wooden and strengthened both with spells weaved between the fibres as well as sturdy iron.

He’s not sure what he’s doing here. -Why- he’s here in the first place. Maybe to reassure himself they are doing the right thing, that there is nothing left of Rhys, nothing worth saving. Or maybe the Knight Commander’s words did hold some truth to them, perhaps his friend hasn’t been tainted beyond repair, perhaps, but only -perhaps-, the repentance they spoke of in the quietness of the common room could still be achieved and he’d be able to salvage the destroyed friendship. 

There had to be something that gave him away, maybe the lightness of his steps or maybe the uneasy silence that hangs like a noose because he can pick up on some rustling on the other side of the door. 

“Vaughn?” The voice is raw and hurting but quickly turning into something lighter and more carefree. “Vaughn!

Yeah, that’s him, but there are no words forming in his throat yet and it feels like the cobwebs of the emotional distance and years they have spent apart cling to his tongue and mouth. There is a strangled huff on the other side of the door, followed with something distinctively sounding like sniffs, as if someone was trying to scent along the crack between the wood and the floor.

“Vaughn? Is that you? Can you come in? …’s awfully lonely in here, you know?” He has to shake his head because that calm, sad tone worms its way into his head, his training telling him that those little pleas are nothing more than snakes trying to wrap around his mind, ready to sink their venomous fangs the second they pick up on a weakness.

“...Can’t. I’m sorry… Rhys.” The name rolls off his tongue with familiar ease but leaves a bitter taste and he has to swallow a couple of times to get rid of it.

“Oh. Alright, that’s fine. Knight Commander’s orders huh? What a prick.” Vaughn nods, catches himself doing that and fixes his mistake with a rough ‘yeah’ slipping past his dry lips. The man is really an awful prick. “That’s fine… I’ve got this. Just… don’t go just yet.” Rhys says that with the absolute certainty that he has no rights to, same way he always says that and like always, Vaughn knows the man just -hasn’t- got this. Whatever ‘this’ happens to be at any given time. Yet, it’s always there and he can’t help but fall for it every time. Exactly like he’s falling for it right now, slumping against the wall opposite to the door and listening to a hiss tinged with a growl when something scrapes against the door, a flicker of protective wards briefly illuminating the darkness. They are magic-proof and evil-repellent.

 

Rhys seems to rethink his strategy quickly, and there comes a sound of sharp claws tearing splinters from the doorstep, the rustle of soil sweeped to a side and the nerve-raking shriek when they drag over the stone. He always thought the stronghold was impenetrable but taking one look at the wooden shavings flying left and right as Rhys literally -digs- into and through it like a man possessed, makes him realize how many holes in their defences there are, how easy it would be for evil to sneak inside if they were not to keep constant vigil. 

His instincts tell him to fall back, that he needs to let someone from the higher ups know that their prisoner is trying to… what? Escape? But is he really. The huffs and scratches stop momentarily and Rhys is calling to him, begging for him to stay and there are just as many holes in his own defenses because he gravitates back towards the door, a curse or a prayer to the Gods breathed out as he crouches next to the narrow opening now torn through the doorstep and the ground around it. Something gleams briefly in the darkness pooled underneath the door, the shape narrowing at the edges with a smile he remembers all too well. There’s a slow blink, the eye never moving from its fixed position and a soft ‘hey’ breaks the quietness. 

“Hey to you too.” It feels almost normal, or maybe not normal, Vaughn corrects himself, rather, something worn out with years of use and so familiar it wraps around and settles heavily on your shoulders like a blanket that has been patched one too many times. The sliver of shimmer disappears, chased with more clawing and he has to scuttle back with disgust as blackened skin brushes too close to him for comfort, fingers tipped in razor sharp nails scooping handfuls of splintered wood and soil, the man acting with nearly feverish determination. A larger portion of the doorstep cleared, he can see glimpses of bruised skin in the dim lightning, Rhys pushing his face into the empty space, the tip of his nose poking through the opening as his nostrils flare and the barely visible corner of his mouth curls into a toothy grin. It’s odd, how he has changed, once clumsy and awkward movement of too long limbs now replaced with easy over-confidence even though he still moves about jerkily, less due to a sudden growth spurt and more thanks to seemingly being able to pick too many sensations around him. Like an animal catching mixing scents in the air and warily turning its head left and right.

“I’m loving that new look. The beard really suits you.” He can’t contain the easy chuckle bubbling in his throat as the other man angles his head again to peek through the crack. Only able to use his hearing to discern what’s going on behind the closed door, the face suddenly disappearing has him worried in anticipation but soon enough, fingers, blessedly human and with chipped and occasionally bloodied nails, push through the gap, one scrawny limb managing to get stuck somewhere around mid forearm. The hand flexes, fingers curling in an invitation and the voice on the other side is slightly muffled, raising suspicions that Rhys is most probably face planting the ground in order to squeeze as much of his arm through the hole as he can. Ever the irresponsible idiot, Vaughn thinks.

“Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” His touch is hesitant, Vaughn gingerly skirting his fingers over the center of the open palm, but Rhys’ isn’t, and the borderline painful grip wrapping around his hand has him pulling one of his daggers in an instant. But the other man doesn’t pick up on the danger, doesn’t understand his touch may be unwelcome, not really brutish but rather careless in its naivety and strangely good intentions. There’s a disappointed whine when he starts prying the fingers digging into his flesh away, soon turning into a more content sigh when he only moves to slot their hands together at a more comfortable angle, wary of the spiteful tattoos etched into previously unmarred skin. Rhys is desperate, and so is Vaughn, both of them wanting to prolong the sudden moment of peace despite the grim circumstances and fate pushing them into opposite directions. 

“I’m sorry Rhys. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. There’s been a talk… going on since yesterday… they will be trying to save you, take away whatever has nestled into your right arm... “ His voice breaks and the hand he’s right now holding in both of his, gives a sympathetic squeeze. “...it’s not going to be pretty. And after that… I’ve read it in the old tomes, there’s repentance to be done. But the Knight Commander says there’s still hope for you… Rhys, please. Let them do that, let them help you.” 

A strangled giggle meets his words and tears prickle at the corners of his eyes because it sounds nothing like Rhys he knows.

“Listen to yourself, I can barely recognize you behind those words. Do you really believe their lies? Jack… Jack says they are just as power hungry, corrupted and crazed like the rest of the kingdom. I’m thinking, they are after the parasite, not grand scale redemptions… Don’t worry…” As if it was him who should be worried, but the other man tries to reassure -him-, of all people, as he always did, even in the most dire of times. The Sorcerer’s apprentice is reassuring the very man leading him to his doom and yet neither of them cares enough to spare a single thought for the irony. The arm jerks lightly and he thinks that there must be a shoulder carelessly being shrugged inside of the cell. “...don’t worry. Jack’s coming. I know, I… hope. I know. Today, maybe tomorrow, it’s going to be fine and you know.. You can come along. He… he can be good when he tries, there’s this whole deal where he opens the seventh gate of hell just to summon sweet buns and…”’ This time it’s Rhys’ voice that breaks, charged silence enveloping the space between them.

They both are too tangled into what their respective masters have pummeled into their heads, blindly believing in the skewed reflection of reality taught to them and refusing to accept any other version of it to even argue about their different views. 

But there is no forgiveness for those deemed sinners and there are no sorcerers sweeping in to save the day. Life isn’t a story either of them weaves, the strings of fate held in much more powerful and cunning hands.

“Tell me… tell me about your life now, please?” Rhys makes the decision for the both of them, steering the topic to something vaguely more neutral and his voice is soft as if he was asking how Vaughn’s day in the field was. If he has seen the first butterflies of this spring when he was out, because Rhys has, just by the stream as he herded the cattle this morning. It’s hard not to fall into the half-forgotten routine but he doesn’t even try resisting it, seating himself down on the cold stone floor and beginning to run his thumbs along the arch of his friend’s palm, the moment sweeping away the gravity of their situation. He tells him all about his knight training, how he became a squire to one of the more important knights and how he has recently completed his sword training, one last challenge still ahead of him before he can be awarded the full ‘witch hunter’ title. Rhys is envious. Clearly he is, complaining that he isn’t allowed any other weapons beside his ribbon and Vaughn laughs at that, poking fun at the man’s unimposing stature.

Rhys says he has lost his weapon and if his friend has perchance seen it. 

Vaughn hasn’t. 

Vaughn also wishes he could see his friend right now, to see that goofy face change with light-hearted emotions and to see the smile he can hear in his voice curl the man’s lips.

“So, have you finally figured out how to get along with that arm of yours? I remember you complaining about constantly nicking yourself with the claws last time we spoke…” He remembers a lot more from the last time they spoke but Vaughn pushes the heartbreak and fear to the back of his mind because none of it matters anymore, not with the way Rhys’ palm is warm and soft in his hands. 

“Yeah…” There is an audible swallow on the other side of the door, Rhys swallowing down his own memories and his voice, at first coloured with uncertainty quickly takes back on the familiar mirth of his jokes. “Yeah, I just gotta remember the ‘evil’ hand is for magic and well… digging…”, it sure is, given the hole he has torn a couple of moments ago, his point illustrated with the sound of an idle scratch against the stone, “...and the ‘good’ hand is for more mundane things… eating, writing and... “, fingers tighten around his wrist, “...jerking off!” 

Vaughn can’t recall the last time a genuine laughter shook through his body with such intensity and he’s already slapping the offending limb away with a mock-pretend disgusted ‘eww’. 

Their voices drift through empty halls with easy carelessness for a few more seconds before a sharp click and clack of studded boots cuts them off.

“How dare you!” A witch huntress, one of his new, dear friends comes barreling down the corridor, all barely contained fury and angry words. “Have you forgotten what he has done to your brothers and sisters!?”

“Yvette…” She was the only one to survive the total annihilation Rhys has supposedly unleashed upon a squad of young knights and ever since, burning passion and hatred tinged her every action. Just like it tinges the swift kick she delivers to the forearm sticking from underneath the door. 

There’s a pained howl on the other side and some furious shuffling before a lick of candlelight bounces off of darkened skin, curling around sharp spikes of the hand lashing out through the hole. Claws wrap in an iron grip around Yvette’s ankle, piercing the leather with as much ease as they pierce her skin.

“-I- am his brother!” She screams, cursing as she tries to rip the hand away from her leg and he can see the deep gashes and the blood, mixed with the dirt still stuck underneath Rhys’ claws, soaking through the leather. Dark powers thrashing about the restrains are nearly palpable, making a sense of dread in the face of something this spiteful settle in the pit of his stomach. The hand pulses, its outline losing some of its sharpness for a second, but before he can make heads or tails of it, it’s back to its completely solid shape.

“Rhys! Stop that!” Vaughn has his dagger back in one hand, unsure whether he should strike, his body ready to do so regardless of his hesitation. He knows Rhys doesn’t share, never was good at that anyway, largely due to having grown up without anyone to take care of him and fighting for scraps with the local strays before Vaughn’s family took him in. The possessive words scare him as much as they stroke something warm burning in his chest, their meaning close to his heart but the tone is nearly unearthly and vibrating with spite. Thankfully, the hand retracts almost immediately, followed with a raspy chuckle that drops into a painfully familiar, soft rasp that is particularly unfitting of the situation.

“You freak!” Yvette bangs her fists against the door in hardly contained rage, her anger only met with a huff on the other side. “I’ll be sure to watch you suffer tomorrow you undeserving, rabid mutt!”

He wishes he hadn’t had spared a single glance towards the door as he wrapped his arm around the injured woman. She needs healer’s attention and he needs to figure out a way to erase the view of one madly gleaming eye and sharp teeth shown in a hellish grin from his memory. 

He wishes he hadn’t seen his friend’s face.

“Oh, the pleasure will be all mine, sugar~.” Rhys’ voice is nearly singsong as it echoes through the corridor, chasing the two fleeing witch hunters.


	15. Chapter 15

The first bite of encroaching autumn seeps through the stone walls and deeper into the bowels of the stronghold, a bone-deep chill settling into the emptiness in his heart.  
Rhys wraps his arms around knees pulled flush to his chest and hides the tip of his nose between them.  
Jack is taking awfully long getting here and all he wishes for is to get back to the castle and back to the warm embrace of everyday familiarity. Rhys watches a roaming spider spin a few loose threads before it choses to escape through a narrow slit letting in a sliver of moonlight. With a wistful sigh, he pokes at the molded scrap of bread and dried jerky one of the guards shoved through the crack opening in the door, having once turned his nose on a similar offering, he can’t afford himself to be picky this time.  
It tastes of dust and dirt and is just so incredibly -hard- to chew but Rhys thinks that in the end, suffering through this hardship will be worth the effort, he just needs to last just that little bit longer until he’s sprung free.  
And maybe, just maybe, he’s going to need to meet his master half-way, to make the man proud of his abilities to pull through a rough patch on his own. There is a half formed plan lazily bubbling at the back of his mind, waiting for the right time and the right place and the right -person-. In the meantime, his thoughts idly stray to the upcoming reunion with the Sorcerer and he mentally puffs out his chest at the imaginary scenario playing behind his closed eyelids.  
_The flames will be roaring and the Knight Commander’s severed head shall decorate the flagpole at the highest of the towers, dead knights’ bodies strewn across the courtyard._ Rhys lets out a delighted chuckle at this image. _Jack will sweep in on one of his dragons and his dutiful apprentice will welcome him amongst the pure carnage._ Subconsciously, his hand moves to circle the barely patched up wound on his left temple, fingernails picking at the frayed skin and irritating the edges over and over again. _...and then there will be a hand at the nape of his neck and words of praise murmured into his ear…_ his other hand strays to mimic the imaginary touch _...and then Vaughn and Sasha and Fiona, all three of them, will call him their mighty saviour and then…_

But now is now and there are hesitant footsteps echoing through the hallway, the apprentice wiping the fresh blood now sticking to his fingertips onto his pants as he slinks closer to the door to tentatively gauge the newcomer’s identity, a flicker of hope sparking in his heart. 

-II-

It’s evening, or so he assumes, when a small force comes barging through the door leading to his cell and Rhys goads them with a snobby attitude and a cheerful quip that ‘they should have knocked first’. They do not find his excellent sense of humour nearly half as amusing as they should, roughly manhandling and dragging him upstairs and back to the same chamber he has gotten acquainted with fairly well last night.

It’s back to the wooden device and back to chains and manacles and ropes twisting around his body. What’s new however, is a sharp tip of an iron nail digging into the center of his left palm and moving about slightly to feel the space between the bones.

“That’s a little bit extreme I daresay…” Stripped bare of the parasite’s powers and robbed of the connection to his master, all that he has left are snarky remarks that die out in a howl of pain as a crotchety old knight brings down the hammer.

They leave his right hand alone for now, fearful, rightfully so, of the entity residing in there and Rhys is at least moderately grateful for that because his left palm hurts like a bitch. It, however, is less about the pain, he can deal with that, Jack has made sure of that, and more about the inability to move, settling into the pit of his stomach like a handful of stones weighing him down.

The room is uncomfortably hot, a metal basket full of bright red cinders heats up the place to an unbearable temperature and the knights gathered in smaller groups around the Knight Commander look like they are sweating buckets. So is Rhys, but at the very least he manages to send a strained, toothy grin that promises -bad things- towards the witch huntress he has injured last night. She’s here, just as she has promised, standing left to Vaughn and glaring daggers at him. That’s good, he’s quite pleased to have found her amongst the crowd.

Flexing the fingers of his injured hand, Rhys tries to ground himself in the reality, eyes briefly skimming over his friend before they flicker to the Knight Commander. The man is poking at the embers with a long iron rod but when he pulls back, Rhys notices with eyes growing wide, that it is tipped with an inverted arch of a ‘V’, nearly glowing a brilliant white of a scorching hot metal. 

The witch hunters’ brand.

Something in Rhys’ chest flutters with barely contained excitement.

 _”No evil shall walk the holy ground.”_

They begin to chant and he cocks his head at the odd sense of familiarity, curled in the way their words sound like a pitch-black ink spilling on the floor. An echo of a shy drip of the blood lazily rolling with a tickle over the skin of his palm to drop to the holy ground and then, a little keen rises in the back of his throat.

_“No stone left unturned to shelter the devil.”_

The Knight Commander slowly begins closing the distance and Rhys can almost feel the smell of, what feels, at least to -him-, like, dusty, centuries old parchment. The persistent stink of sweat and fear and -wrong- sticks to the stone walls like an untold story of horrors that have transpired here and Rhys scents the air to pick up the intermingling spice of sweltering iron and a promise.  
A promise of one step closer taken away from ‘inferior’. The perfect replica of magical superiority in the making.

_”The taint will burn in the righteous flame”_

They are calling upon something bigger, something that doesn’t exactly fit into the space of the chamber and doesn’t want to be contained by mere words, leaving a bitter taste of roaring anger. Contracts, deals with powerful beings, they have their own flavour, a rarely even balance of loss and gain and he wonders what it is, that the witch hunters gave up in exchange for the power they are handling. Rhys hopes it’s at the very least, their souls.  
A nervous tongue darts over slightly parted lips, not in fear but with anticipation.

_”For I am the hunter stalking my prey”_

His world narrows down to the hypnotizing shape swaying before his face, the pendulous movement hungrily swallowed by two intent eyes that never waver from their fixed spot. For a brief moment nothing else seems to exist, the branding iron becoming the very center of everyone’s attention and the magic weaved into it can nearly be seen in sparks dancing over the metal.  
He takes pride in a skewed thought clouding his judgement as to what his master must have felt when he received his brand. Was it dread? Apprehension? Rhys doesn’t have either of those, only joy that this might take him down the same path the most powerful man he knows walked once. 

_”And the divine guides my hand”_

Rhys welcomes the kiss of the iron across his skin with eyes closed and a half smile playing on his lips. It burns like Jack’s magic never did, spiteful where the Sorcerer’s was all kinds of -right- and gentle and loving but Rhys takes solace in how much the divine power seems to mirror his own distaste for it. The spell hidden between the two sides of the arch sinks into his flesh, biting with a hiss of skin being scorched. Just another mark added to his collection and the apprentice completely severs the connection between the cry bursting through his lips and the dreamy fog of his insatiable fantasy.

The skin around the burned imprint pulls when he grins, through tears and pain, coming across even more maniacal as he cocks his head to a nearly unnatural tilt.

“You absolute fools…” it hurts to speak, to move even a single muscle of his face, the flesh around the brand swollen and forcing his left eye to remain closed, but this is something he’s well acquainted with, so chasing his words with a hoarse chuckle is as easy as letting the careless statement slur around his tongue and then drip into the air, “...the Sorcerer was right, you claim to act with the divine blessing but your gods are nothing more but feral creatures you worship in exchange for their services. You are the very same thing you believe to be hunting.” 

It made them no better than him, slaves to something more powerful than them and stealthily using it for their own purposes. 

But Rhys is smarter than them, he realizes that all the more in this very moment, they will serve to their dying breaths but he has a chance to rise above it all, with the parasite’s might at his disposal and an eager teacher he’ll follow to the brink of the world, for the very first time the disappointment of not being chosen for Jack’s next host turns into something different. A warmth of pride that overrides the burn on his face because maybe, just maybe, this all could mean -he- could become the next Sorcerer. 

Rhys takes a deep breath and makes a mental note to ask Jack if he’d allow another Sorcerer to prance about his castle. 

The Knight Commander tells him that he knows nothing but the man is wrong, oh so very wrong and Rhys only laughs in his face.

There is a talk going on, in hushed voices, and he picks up on the glimmer of knives carefully set on the table, runes he vaguely remembers from the time the Sorcerer took his right arm apart etched into the blades. They want to take the major source of his powers away, carve the flesh and split the bones to leave him crippled. A quiet thought brushing along the edges of his mind tries to calm him down, it says that it’s going to be fine, that once they let their guards down, once the blade makes the final cut, it will be free to make another jump and latch itself deeper into his body. 

It seems excited. 

Unlike the apprentice, because the only thing keeping his wavering sanity intact is the line of scarred skin between the arm he has unwillingly surrendered to the parasite and everything that made him -Rhys, the apprentice-. Jack warned him that if it ever were to reach his heart or mind, he’d be lost to the curse and the realization makes his guts twist, body involuntarily jerking with the restrained need to escape. 

The final straw is the way the Knight Commander carefully unstraps his great sword from his back, setting the tip against the ground and presents the handle to his friend. Vaughn falters, eyes growing wide and blood draining from his face. The older witch hunter speaks with nauseating sweetness of final tests and of proving oneself. So much for the promised repentance and the apprentice isn’t surprised in the least, as opposed to his friend who grew to blindly believe in the witch hunters’ lies. 

Rhys doesn’t see, doesn’t want to see how Vaughn squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, he ignores the curt nod in favour of concentrating on the dejected look shot his way. The only thing that matters is how the sword in nearly Vaughn’s size. So they want to break the brotherly bond, so they no longer lie about wanting to save him. So Jack isn’t coming and perhaps -he- needs to prove himself. Perhaps it’s time to stop being the Sorcerer’s boy and make a name for himself.

There is one last trick up his sleeve, feeding off their recklessness and how they completely dismissed him as a magic wielder, focused on restraining the vile power living within him and the hold his master had on him. 

He mouths ‘it’s gonna be alright, i’ve got this’ towards his friend, bloodied, bruised and with an angry mark of the brand across his face but Rhys -has- got this.  
An idle, almost uninterested thought drifts low over the stone floor, slinking between the bustling knight’s feet, all of them too busy preparing for their ritual to pay any real attention. The apprentice has left a little something to wait for the right time and now it’s here and so’s the time. 

There always is life buried in the ground, waiting to be found, a stray seed carried with the wind and getting lost in the dust laying softly over the dungeon’s floor. All you need to do is look for it, all you need is to know -how- to find it and Rhys hasn’t spent so much time studying his craft to just let it all go to waste. He found it and then planted within fertile grounds. Grounds which were kind enough to show up to watch his demise with a disapproving tilt of lips. The wound he has inflicted has been cleaned but not before the bloodstream carried a little secret, bringing it to the heart and then higher, a seed so small no human eye could detect it, nestling in the inviting warmth of brain tissue.

Now all he has to do is give it a little prod, straining against the iron and ropes keeping him in place because he’s worn down and hurting and drawing from his own life powers instead of the parasite but that’s just about enough. 

The Sorcerer had him waste countless of hours over books on human anatomy before he learned how to alter his form but it also came with the added perk of studying the intricacies of the brain and the four bodily fluids that needed to be kept in right balance to keep one sane. Two types of bile, phlegm and blood that’s what the book said, disturb the equilibrium and you can easily manipulate your victim. 

The seed draws some of the fluids.

-II-

The witch huntress sways lightly on her feet, taking a hesitant step towards the strung up animal huffing in its restrains. Her brothers and sisters pay no mind to her advances, all of them busy with their respective duties, carrying around extra manacles and bindings in case the power they are about to unleash slipped from under their control, some of them sharpening their weapons and some drafting the sigils that may come in handy.

Coming face to face with the creature now limp against the bindings, she finds its whole being repulsive, scary in a way that makes something inside of her scream but there is no fear at the fore of her mind as she meets one, calm eye staring at her. 

“Hey sugar,” it speaks and the witch huntress supposes that the voice is attractive enough, the raw edges of a fresh scar and the stench of burned skin quickly becoming an afterthought rather than a sickening twist in her stomach. 

A deeply seated urge to set this wild thing free settles within her, easily overshadowing the uneasy feeling of something moving through her body, slinking through the veins and slowly curling around her heart. There is new-found strength tingling at the tips of her fingers begging for her to wrap them around the iron nail pinning the animal down. She spares one last look at its face, and it takes her breath away it’s...she’s at a loss for words and the thing growing within her helpfully supplies where her own imagination falls short.

It’s handsome. 

The witch huntress finally makes her move, yanking the nail free and something inside of her coils, literally not just figuratively, her attention wavering when there is a name, her name, called out loud. She turns around half-way and the words slipping her lips sound like hers but aren’t.

“I’ve got this!”

It’s her friend, -its- friend, not hers, no, no no, grasping the heavy sword and shouting to bring everybody’s attention to her. There is no time, the urge turning into a demanding scream and she has her dagger in one hand, how did it get there?, already slashing through the ropes and then bringing its pommel against the chains keeping the creature restrained. 

And then, the friendly lick of something growing within her, something she has nurtured with utmost care, turns into a burst of searing pain, her mouth hanging open wide when the flesh parts with a wet sound, thick ropes of vines sprouting from her arms and front. Everything feels muted, obscured by a thick curtain of vicious presence clouding her mind and soon enough Yvette slips into a blissful darkness, two spindly buds forcing her eyes out of the sockets and replacing the empty spaces with blooming flowers, their hue a much more vivid and beautiful shade than her irises ever could be. The scream of protest her body tries to produce ends up stifled when something burrows deeper into her mouth, throat spasming around the thick vine quickly growing a layer of bark and turning into a branch. She doesn’t need to breath anymore, leaves tearing her lungs apart and slipping between straining ribs in search of air and sunlight. 

-II-

Rhys has no time to admire his handiwork, dropping to his feet with a hiss and the strain of everything he has been through, weighs him down, his whole body curling in and on itself, injured hand cradled against his chest and clawed fingers skimming over scarred skin. Even though the raging column of twisted vines has sapped the last remains of life and nutrients out of the despicable huntress’ body, it’s him who gave it will and so it fights to protect him, a scattered thought making it aim for this or that knight. 

It takes every ounce of the powers still simmering within him to bounce up and dart between the people being torn apart around him, through the door and down the corridor. The metal engraved with spiteful hexes still circles his right arm and so he’s on his own, letting the lifeform he has created deal with his enemies, mangled pieces of the huntress strung together around the vile creeper and used like a mocking equivalent of a child’s toy.

He’s nearly delirious by the time he reaches lower levels, lost amidst the maze of corridors until he hears a familiar voice calling his name.

“Rhys! You useless piece of shit, get over here!” 

In the haze of his panicked escape, he must have reached the holding cells and through simple bars intended to hold regular humans captive, there’s Sasha frantically waving him over.

There are footsteps chasing after him but they are distant enough that he can allow himself a short breather, slowing down and as he comes closer towards the bars, a clawed hand rakes through his hair in a feeble attempt at bringing some order. 

“Evening, or morning, whatever it is, didn’t know they kept you in here.” Ever the gentleman, eh? By the time he reaches the cell, he has his arms crossed over his chest, the injured hand tucked under his arm and the other idly resting over his forearm, fingers thrumming against the torn fabric.

“Shut your stupid mouth and open the door! It’s your fault they caught us!” Fiona bangs her fists against the bars in a useless bout of fury.

“Oh? And what am I getting out of it?” He now has a reputation to live up to and as Jack once said, a Sorcerer does not give out his services for free.

“Open the goddamned door before I murder you with my own two hands!”

A Sorcerer does not give out his services for free, nor does he yield to empty threats but an apprentice could really use some help getting out of the stronghold. Clawed fingers curl around the bars, physical strength not restrained anymore and with a strong jerk, the door ends up pulled off its hinges.

With the sisters dragging him along and towards the stables, Rhys thinks he can finally let himself faint a little bit once they mount their steeds and he has his arms securely wrapped around Sasha’s waist. 

There will be a pursuit party sent after them and he hopes the only survivor of the massacre he has unleashed in the torture chamber will not be forced to join it. He thinks Vaughn deserves a little break with how sad his eyes were as their fleeting gazes briefly met.

-II-

Angel finds her father sat sprawled on his armchair, idly staring into the blazing fire. It has become sort of a habit, lighting up the hearth even though the Sorcerer has no real need for extra warmth, but she supposes it must feel alright, despite no more humans inhabiting the castle, the dancing flames seem to calm him down. It looks like his previous bout of anger has simmered down, if only momentarily given how he has kept lashing out on his undead servants messing up even the most mundane duties he had them carry out across the span of the last couple of days. 

The soft tap of her arthropod legs alerts the man of her presence and he nonchalantly shoves a strip of red he has been toying with into his pocket. She knows to whom it belonged and it only manages to fan the anger burning in her chest.

“Where is he? Where is -your- boy?”

Jack has the audacity to act surprised and then scoff that she has left the safety of her maze.

“Drop the act, Father,” the word carries so much hatred it’s nearly palpable, “he said he’ll be back within a day.”

And she’s been waiting, patiently at first but the nervous pacing on the top levels of the castle quickly drove her to her own kind of restlessness. 

“Told him to stop going downstairs…” the Sorcerer mutters under his breath, quickly switching back to the overly sweet tones he took on whenever the two of them spoke. She crowds his personal space, the sharp tip of one of her legs landing against the edge of the armchair. “What is it babydoll, you took a shine to that lousy mortal?”

“Shut up,” he tsks at her language but doesn’t dare to comment upon it, “unlike you, I feel no need to repress my affections.” It’s true, the boy has easily grown on her, often slipping into the soothing darkness of her habitat whenever he thought he wouldn’t be caught and Angel hates, hates, -hates- her Father for always taking away things that made her feel good, desperately and egoistically trying to replace them with his own presence. That’s not what she wants and that’s not what she needs but Jack seems unable to grasp what it is that she longs for the most. “What did you do to him?”

“Me? Nothing honey, the witch hunters however... “

It sends her reeling back, fury making her own powers crack with static and the coarse hairs growing over her lower body bristle.

“You loosen his leash to see how far he’ll try to get away from you, only to tug on it once your own limits are reached, how utterly pathetic of you!” She’s snarling and stomping the rear set of legs against the ground. That happened before, more times than she can recall, the last victim which has fallen for the pretenses of friendship, poisoned and sent to an uneven fight against the king’s men. She has always liked the old, gruff but oddly cheerful mercenary, even when his flesh was stripped clean of his bones only to be replaced with Jack’s constructs, Wilhelm always took lightly to his ‘upgrades’. Until an enemy’s sword ended his misery.

“Have some respect for your Father, no tugging this time.” His words are tinged with fake mirth. 

The Sorcerer is annoying on a good day but anxiety and doubt usually managed to make him unbearable, in return, making her own patience run short. So when he leans forward to give a playful flick to the tip of her nose, Angel finally snaps, lurching forward to ram her front legs into her Father’s chest, pressing with full weight and keeping the armchair in place with the secondary pair of legs. 

“Is he coming back?”

“Down child. Now.” The words thrum with the power he holds over her but Angel has been dealing with her incorrigible father for half a century by now and she knows the ins and outs of what bound her, even better than the Sorcerer might have suspected. She’s obliged to follow his orders, usually with a large dose of spite, but down means down and so she twists the command in her own mind to push all the harder against his front.

“Or what? You gonna hurt me?” When Jack’s hands come up to try and force her legs away, she angles them at a harsh slant, the slender appendages now put in a precarious position, edging on being fractured if the man continued his struggle. She climbs higher onto the armchair, now two sets of legs pinning the Sorcerer down while the third pair keeps the balance intact. “I don’t know what you did, what you’ve sold to the previous Sorcerer but you cannot hurt me. Not physically at least.”

Golden eyes drift lower and to the side, clearly avoiding her own.

“Sometimes I wish you could, maybe it would be less painful than your lies.” He looks small and unimposing like that, sinking deeper into the armchair under her weight and tilting his head lower, hair out of place and uncared for for the past couple of days, one horn broken and a hollow look on his face.

“Don’t say that Angel, I did it to protect you. Tassiter took my vengeance so I could never raise my hand against you…It never came back, not even after his death.” There is no point torturing this broken man and so she pulls back, scuttling towards the center of the room, hands idly picking a thread of her web to play with it, weaving a familiar design of a cradle. Rhys has told her all about the things he gave up in exchange for becoming an apprentice and suddenly the moderate lenience Jack exhibited towards the boy made more sense, the Sorcerer looking to reclaim something he’s once lost and making a fatal error as it fused with the bond and backfired spectacularly. A fitting conclusion if you care for her opinion.

“You show care for things you hold close to your heart in a peculiar way, Jack.” He hates it when she addresses him in any other way than ‘Father’ and ‘dad’ has never made it past her lips but Angel takes great delight in watching him fume in useless anger. “Let me ask again, is he coming back?”

“Yes.” Her joy is short lived as the Sorcerer unprompted clarifies his statement, perhaps looking for someone to share the burden of his hasty decision. “One way or another he is. The deal he struck with me obliges him to serve for ten full years. Dead or alive, in one piece or in a million, whatever will be left of him, will crawl back here sooner or later to continue its servitude..”

“He’ll most likely die at the witch hunters’ hands, why did you send him there?” From what she has observed, Rhys was willing to let the Sorcerer tear him apart and then thank his oppressor so Jack couldn’t possibly be fearing the repercussions of killing the boy himself, vengeful as the kid was.

“He went on his own will.” She snarls and he curls his hand tighter around the strip of red silk in his pocket. “The hunters wield magic I cannot, I tried to but failed, perhaps they will be able to unlace the ties binding the parasite to its host.” And then, according to his words, all the severed pieces will slither back to the castle and into greedy, awaiting hands. No strings attached. 

“Your lust for power will once again be your undoing, Sorcerer.”

“Everything I do, I do it for you, with the Warrior at my exclusive disposal I can take over the kingdoms, have the most marvelous of castles just for you Angel, baby it could all be yours, your rightful heritage.” Jack springs to his feet, reassuming his previous nervous pacing, clearly at odds with his own thoughts and desires. 

“Has it ever occurred to you, you sad, pitiful, old man that I do not crave what you crave? It was good the way it was for the past two years, you acted more like the Father I remember from my youth and I had a … I dunno, a sibling.” A family. Uncanny as it was, with less than chaste relations between the Sorcerer and his apprentice, but a family nonetheless. 

“You can do better than that my daughter. Have you no ambitions?” They both are showing their teeth by now, two hardly restrained powers thrashing about the space of the room but never daring to touch.

“I am not willing to trample over things I cherish to sate them, -Father-.” She’s closing the distance again, towering over the Sorceror and forcing him into an unwilling submission.  
“If you are intent on refusing to admit your mistake, -I- shall go and bring the boy back. Where is he?”

“No idea babygirl.” Even cornered like this he will keep lying but she has no patience to call him out for the uptenth time.

“You are forgetting I have my own servants.” 

A physical manifestation of her powers dances over her fingertips and the arachnids inhabiting the castle start pouring into the room, flocking closer to await their mistress’ orders. In his anger, Jack tries to crush them under the heel of his boot, some of the unlucky ones caught into his bout of fury turning into centuries old gold coins, Rhys’ offering that was once so carelessly dismissed. 

“You will not go anywhere.” Jack laces his order with the raw force of his magic and she’s done with him, so utterly, completely done, turning his inability to defend himself against her in her favour. All it takes is one forceful shove to send the man tumbling back and Angel brings down the first two sets of her legs with enough viciousness to snap a couple of his bones. The Sorcerer gasps, hands flying to press over his chest and between his legs. 

“You are not the only one to learn how to exploit the loopholes in the deals that have been sealed. We all learn how to build our lives around our losses.” The web she has been spinning floats down, settling over the slumped down man in a mocking pretense of an embrace, quickly tightening to wrap around him in a vice-like grip. 

At her command, the spiders scatter in all directions, her thought taking them beyond the castle walls to reunite with more of their ilk and pass on the order to find one, particular human child. 

“Reverse your order.” The threads pull tauter against his neck and constrict around his mismatched horns, her front legs raised and ready to strike. “I know you want this.”

The Sorcerer stays quiet for a longer while, twitching when the restraints force another huff out of him and once he finally speaks, his eyes are fixed on the slowly dying out fire, his own defiance escaping with quiet words.

“Go.” The bindings of his command lift off and she lowers her upper body. “Bring me the boy.”

“As you wish, Father. Just don’t expect to have a mindless slave returned back to you.” As much as she would always deny it, Angel is every ounce of her father’s daughter, cunning and filled with her own brand of wickedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so like, the brain stuff? Of course I know its not accurate but it's accurate for medieval times but there are plants, fungi that can turn insects into 'zombies' so the whole mind control thing is completely y'a kno uhh potentially possible. or at least not that far-fetched. why do i feel the need to defend myself? oh boi.  
> Anyway, question time, whatcha guys think, has baby apprentice grown enough backbone to send his master to fucks and back or will he yield once again? Asking for a friend *sweats*


	16. Chapter 16

The horses were well rested and fed, managing to get them to the edges of the Sorcerer’s cursed woods before bottoming out, foam building on their muzzles and whines rising once they scented the hostile environment. They belonged to the witch hunters and as such, there was no way they would lay a single hoof past the edges of the low shrubs.

Which left the question of what to do next up in the air, the people chasing them a couple of miles down the road but quickly making up for their game’s head start.

They are far to the North in relation to the castle and Fiona insists that they should just skirt around the forest’s edges while Rhys meekly advocates abandoning their steeds, because his ass -hurts-, and delving straight into the wilderness. It takes the distant sound of hounds barking for them to settle their difference, Sasha shoving him off the horse’s back, and then following with much more grace and less complaining. In the end, she has seen the forest yield to the apprentice so her choice seemed only natural.

-II-

They set up the first camp once the last glimmer of sun pushing through the dense canopy disappears, the timid flame Rhys has conjured doing little to nothing in terms of fending off the creeping darkness. 

“The hunters fear straying off road so I gather we should be moderately safe here.” With a strained sigh, he stretches his legs in front of the small fire cheerfully crackling in the quietness of the night and for the first time, the panic and adrenaline of their escape settles down enough that he has time to examine the sorry state of his body. 

He’s positively drained, hunger a constant, dull throb at the back of his mind, and the wounds on his left palm and stomach burn with a very real threat of an infection. 

“Can’t you do that handy dandy-wavy thing and heal yourself?” It’s Sasha who finally scoots closer, eyes roaming over his injuries but always ending up snapping back to his face.

“My powers don’t work like that! I don’t dabble in blood magic anyway.”

“Blood magic? What use could you possibly have for it in this situation?” The other sister stares at him through narrowed eyes from across their little camp site.

“Are you joking? I know the witch hunters have happily condemned it as the cursed sacrilegious kind but -please-, it’s far superior in terms of mending flesh wounds to their ‘healing powers’ or whatever bullshit they have been calling it. Who else do you think would do better, a lunatic monk with some half-assed chants or someone who has actively studied human body?” With exhaustion, Rhys’ patience runs short, “botany is more of a ‘my’ thing…”

That has Fiona rolling over, her laughter nearly hysterical, be it due to the tension finally easing from her shoulders or she just found his words -this- hilarious.

“Botany… really? What kind of lousy mage are you?” A very verse in his craft mage, thank you very much, Rhys huffs and puffs up as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright stud, get me some lamb’s tongue and I think I can fix you up temporarily.”

Didn’t he just say his main fore was botany not animals? And he hasn’t seen any lambs just prancing about the forest without a care in the world. His baffled expression prompts her to elaborate further, explaining what kind of plant it was, describing the shape of its leaves and flowers in detail. 

“Aha! Plantago lanceolata! I know this one.”

“Gods, you are so pretentious.” Fiona throws her hands into the air in exasperation.

“And how do -you- know such a complicated word?” Rhys also throws his hands in the air because apparently they are doing that now.

“Shut up. You want help you get me that platango something something.”

It doesn’t take much to send his powers scouting around the clearing, an errant seed buried a few inches below the ground but he simply has no strength to give it that much needed push and bring it to life. With a solemn gaze, he stares at the manacles still wrapped around his right arm and sealing away the rest of his powers.

“Can’t, not with those things on me…” Chasing that with a wistful sigh, Rhys watches from the corner of his eye the silent exchange between the sisters. Sasha makes a slight move towards him, Fiona squints, Sasha slants her eyes, Fiona grimaces… He has no idea what’s going on but eventually they both nod in unison, younger sister motioning for him to extend his arm. She has a set of thin wires in her hand, lockpicks as he belatedly realizes, and makes a quick work of the locks keeping the metal together.

“Wow! That looked so easy.” Rhys is honestly quite impressed, and a little bit insulted, if not for the hexes etched into the iron and making him keep his hands away from the spiteful blessings, he probably could have done the same. Or not.

“You are welcome asshole. Now, don’t suddenly go ‘mwahaha’ on us and try to turn us into frogs or something…” Sasha is teasing the tip of a blade along his side and Rhys squeezes his eyes, hands shooting up instinctively.

“No evil ‘mwahaha’s promise.” Cracking his good eye open, he catches Fiona tucking something into her sleeve but for now, he’s far more concerned with the blade still dangerously close to his flank. “Where did you get it?”

“Grabbed on our way out, we can’t all be magical wooshy Sorcerer’s boys, a girl gotta know how to protect herself.” He hopes she’s gonna protect him too.

Eventually, and only after he gives a few spiteful kicks to the now unlocked bands of iron, Rhys makes the small plant burst through the ground and for the very first time, that gets him a slightly less disapproving glare from the older sister. 

“I know my charming personality makes up for a lion’s share of my appeal but… why are you helping me? Why not return home?”

He watches Fiona pick a couple of leaves and chew on them with a determined expression on her face so it’s up to the younger sister to answer his question.

“We have our reasons.” One day he will learn that when either of the sisters mentions ‘reasons’ they usually mean ‘money’, that is not today however. “And home isn’t safe anymore… we could use one of Felix’s safehouse but… frankly I don’t want to have anything to do with that despicable traitor.” 

Felix turns out to be their adopted father who has screwed them over and while their story is a real tearjerker, Rhys cannot really sympathise, the memory of how his village has betrayed him having long lost its bitter taste. He tells them the story anyway.

Sasha ends up needing to wrestle him down, an arm around his throat as he keeps demanding to know why it -always- has to be spit when healing was involved, his disgusted shrieks all the louder when Fiona happily slathers the chewed leaves over his face, front and palm.

Rhys isn’t best pleased.

“Hell, you woke up half of the forest with those screams, one would think you’re being mugged here…” Another voice joins the current squabble over who’s going to take the first watch and once he locates its owner, Rhys springs to his feet in an instant before virtually launching himself into the arms of his would be saviour. 

“Angel!” She’s still taller than him and the short, stiff hairs covering her body prickle his skin but damn if he isn’t absolutely delighted when she returns his eager hug. Unwilling to separate from the only friendly contact he has had in days, Rhys only pulls back when there is a metallic click.

“What they hell are you?” / ”Who the hell are you?” The sisters speak over each other, Sasha brandishing her dagger and Fiona holding a tiny but potentially deadly crossbow in one hand.

As he turns around, there is an arm casually slinging over his shoulder.

“Rhys, what are those?”

Caught in the middle of a crossfire of heated glances, it’s up to him to defuse the tense atmosphere. First thing first, introductions are in order but once he gets to acquainting Angel with the sisters, she interrupts him rudely.

“I’m here to collect my Father’s toy. Try to stop me and I will eat you.” As long as he was off the menu, her diet, mostly made of reckless wanderers straying into the caverns below the castle, didn’t bothered him. Now however… “You know, do what you will, it’s been a while since my last meal, think I might gonna eat you anyway.”

“Angel no, they helped, please.”

“Oh…” she seems to be pondering his words for a couple of moments, “Rhys’ friends.” He nods eagerly, a relieved sigh escaping him. “I can respect that. Then I shall make it painless for you.” Up goes her rear and out pokes the stinger, a drop of poison rolling down the curve of it. “Just a little stab, no pain.”

Rhys lets out another shriek and throws himself between them, effectively stopping her advances, both with arms around her midsection and pleading words.

In the end, a some sort of truce is struck, verging on being broken nearly instantly when the three humans have to convince the Sorcerer’s daughter that they desperately need to rest before heading out. She agrees to take the first watch, and Rhys falls asleep cuddled to her bloated belly fast enough that he misses another squabble when Sasha declares that she doesn’t trust Handsome Sorcerer’s spawn and that she too, will watch over the camp.

-II-

Morning finds all of them groggily dragging their feet, a brief stop here and there so Rhys can call forth a few bushes that quickly blossomed and once the flowers wilted, brightly coloured berries took their place. 

Around mouthfuls of fruits and with his chin stained, he’s excitedly telling Angel about his new scar,how intimidating it undoubtedly made him and how it was just like Jack’s when she turns his eyes away from him, fingers hesitantly picking at the stretch of web she has been playing with. A little bit more prodding has her telling him the truth, how he has been played and betrayed. 

“Kid… maybe you should reconsider going back to the castle?” It’s Fiona who finally breaks the heavy silence, gingerly setting a hand on his shoulder and disregarding the glare Angel is shooting her way. Now he knows how they felt but his situation is different, he just can’t put a bolt through the traitor’s chest and move on with his life.

“No… I can’t. Don’t really have anywhere else to go, besides…” Besides, there are so many other reasons making his head droop under the figurative weight of the decisions he has made in his life.

“We are both bound to the castle and to the Sorcerer’s will…” Angel sounds like he feels and they both share a heavy sigh, “...besides,” she picks up where he has left, “... Jack would cry himself into oblivion if we were to leave his stupid ass to his own devices.” 

“Yeah, we don’t need him waging another war against the world just yet, right?”

Sometimes if you care for someone you need to protect them, even against their wishes and around their dumb decisions. Doesn’t mean Rhys is any less -mad- at the man.

 

-II-

The Sorcerer watches the approaching party from the height of his tower, golden eyes fixed on the specks moving agonizingly slow down the road. More people than he expected. Exactly the amount of people his forest told him there will be. 

The sight of his apprentice slumped across Angel’s back and with arms around her waist sparks a momentary burst of anger. Treating his daughter like she was a fucking mount. But it’s only yet another thing to toss into the raging swirl of tension bubbling inside of him, mixed emotions battling within the man. 

It takes them long, too long in Jack’s opinion, to reach the gates and he tries to ease his mind by pacing back and forth, too proud to meet them halfway but too wound up to stay still, subconscious flickers of flame bursting against the stone floor in wake of his footsteps, a more tangible manifestation of his anxiety.

He’s mad, just...so fucking angry, that the boy has returned, that there was a chance he -wouldn’t- return, that the power he craves isn’t his and that it, in a way, -is- his.

Once they step into the courtyard, there is nothing stopping him from taking the shortest route, inky fog spilling over the windowsill to dart twenty feet down before he’s back to his more material form in a billow of smoke. It only takes a couple long strides to come before them, little regard for the two humans as his eyes center on what is rightfully his.

Angel meets his stare with one of her own, hard and challenging but she says nothing as she lets the dead weight drop from her back, gently setting the boy down on the ground.

“Oh sugar, what did they -do- to you…” Her motion brings him to his knees, dust clinging to the material of his clothes with as much indifference as it clings to the tattered fabric wrapped around his apprentice and as Jack tucks his nose into the crown of boy’s head, there is nothing even remotely familiar or kind about the smell sticking to him. But he finds every shred of comfort he needed in the way the body in his arms trembles when he tugs it closer, a small whimper slipping when the hem of his coat snags against Rhys’ disfigured face.

 

Jack has little care for the audience around them, Angel has seen him at his lowest more times than he wants to remember and the two human girls are nothing but dirt to the Sorcerer.

“You did well baby girl,” he’s used to needing to crane his neck to meet her eyes, it’s just rare for the height difference to be this large, so he makes up for it with an extra dose of venom tinging his next words, “dispose of the mortals, you’ve earned yourself a nice meal.” 

There are words of disagreement coming from those fragile creatures and Jack is leaning more and more towards extinguishing two weak life forms himself, life forms that are accountable for this whole mess, at least, according to the Sorcerer. Had one of them not strayed into his forest and tried to sneakily seduce his apprentice, he wouldn’t be here on his knees and with an armful of trembles. However, their protests quickly die out when the trembles come to a still and there is a muffled sound of someone clearing his throat and then struggling to push straining words out.

“Master, no… they’re guests, they do not mean ill.” Oh hell they do, judging by the fire of pure hatred burning in the girls’ eyes, and he can still remember how the younger one kicked him in the shin.

“What are you saying sweet thing? Let Angel deal with them and let me take care of you…” His grip only tightens when the boy meekly tries to free himself but Jack is having none of it, unwilling to let go once he has his greedy paws back on him, anger only roaring louder whenever he caught yet another glimpse of the abuse burned into the skin of his belonging.

“Jack, no, no, please…” He’s already opening his mouth to shush his boy when the struggles are suddenly aided, Angel leaning down and yanking the boy back with a hand placed on his shoulder.

“Rhys, do not beg.” With eyes slanted into a perfect copy of his own grimace, his daughter is shooting him the coldest stare. “You’ve heard the boy, Father.” Unsheathed weapons clank in the distance as she slings one arm over the apprentice’s shoulder, a warning as much as it is a possessive gesture he knows so well. The boy seems to be drawing strength from it, four against one, unimpressive and meaningless before his powers but dead-set on their decision.

“They are guests. Treat them well.” There is stubbornness to Rhys’ tone and he glares at his master through his only open eye but at the same time, warm hands seek his own, instead of grasping, settling inside of the curl of his fingers. The Sorcerer doesn’t care for ‘fair’ or ‘even’, not when it feels like the world owes you and not when you believe no one can offer you anything new because you already own it but he gets the meaning behind the compliant motion. Rhys is trying to exchange himself for the lives of those two pesky mortals, not understanding that what he’s giving has been Jack’s all along. Or maybe he does and it is just a reminder that the Sorcerer has better things to attend to instead of getting into pointless arguments. 

“Do what you will.” It’s nearly physically painful to force those words through the thin line of his lips but he quickly forgets about it when Angel shoves the boy back into his arms and without another word, stalks towards the castle with the two humans hot on her heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay back home i suppose


	17. Chapter 17

It takes another couple of moments and a few distressed whimpers whenever his grip tightens involuntarily, pressed into the crook of his neck, for Jack to finally get his bearings. It’s not that he doesn’t realize what the apprentice is doing, shaky arms coming to wrap around him and a heavy weight settling more snuggly against his chest meant to ease his mind, but Jack can’t find it in himself to get worked up over this little bit of manipulation. Eventually he moves to shift his grip, helping the exhausted boy up, leading him to the south wing, up the three steps where he needs to catch the stumbling body and to the bathing chamber.

Something is odd, the way Rhys goes rigid whenever his master’s sudden touch surprises him and the way Jack can’t exactly figure it out but as he flicks his wrist and makes the tub fill with warm water, he files it away for later.

“Get in there, I’ll be right back with you.”

He keeps raking his mind in search of the answer to that strange feeling, the click and clack of his heels echoing through empty corridors leading to the study room and with each step his anxiety grows. 

Brief glances stolen in his apprentice’s direction more or less told him which tools and salves would come in handy so the Sorcerer quickly rummages through the cupboards, gathering in his arms necessary aids before he rushes back to where he’s needed the most. And hell, but Jack loves feeling -needed-, never having really experienced this from his own daughter, the apprentice easily fills the void in his longing heart.

By the time he reaches the washroom, candle lights flickering with the force of his entrance, Rhys has already stripped, now curled in the corner of the tub with arms wrapped around his knees and indifferently watching the water take on a pinkish hue.

Jack drops his coat and rolls the sleeves of his shirt before he sets off to work, lathering the soap first and then, running his palms over the bruised skin. His hands briefly tremble when he settles them against the boy’s chest, finding marks that weren’t his on something that belonged to him, a deep breath taken to help him tuck away that anger and will his touch to remain feather-light. For now at the very least.

It irks him, more than he’s willing to admit, that his gentle touches are invariably met with restrained attempts to put some distance between the two of them. Each and every one followed by a somewhat forced jerk back and closer to him. His apprentice never shied away from whatever the master offered so the petulant gaze turned away from him feels nearly like an insult but he supposes that the kid went through enough that he perhaps needed some space. 

“Come on baby, you’re home, safe, I’ve got you…” A violent sob wracking through the boy’s body takes him by surprise so in return Jack starts babbling even more, some sort of panic, a feeling he barely recognizes as his, settling in his chest when his words spark even more skittish reactions. 

This little game of cat and mouse quickly grows dull and plain annoying, the repetition of Jack reaching towards the boy, watching him pull away, struggle with his thoughts and then return into the welcoming touch. And he’s trying, so damn hard, to stay gentle as if he was handling a spooked wild animal, something he doesn’t usually care enough to do, but he has no patience nor time for this, eventually turning to snatching his apprentice by the arm to keep him in place. The Sorcerer only gives when it’s wanted and appreciated, in all other cases, he’d rather resort to violence. He itches to scrub the stink of his foes’ magic from his property’s skin and ensnare the boy once again, to stake his claim and replace the bruises he did not place upon the boy’s flesh with the ones painted by his own fingers.

“What is it sugar? What’s wrong? I was so worried about you, my brave little thing.” Soapy hands run up the boy’s throat, working away at the caked blood until they arrive at the hard line of his jaw, cradling Rhys’ face and forcing him to look up and finally meet Jack’s eyes. 

“I’ve got you, there is no need to cry, nothing wrong will ever happen to you, I’ll always protect you…” He runs the tip of his tongue over his lips, bringing the boy’s head closer to rest his forehead against his, the feeling of something being -off- twisting about his chest growing even more pressing when he can’t figure out why he’s only receiving a blank stare in return. Had his words not always have a soothing effect on his apprentice? Jack doesn’t understand, missing an important piece of the puzzle and pouring his frustration into ever more fervent words, now whispered into the heavy silence hanging between them. 

“...Jack?” It’s quiet and broken and sets his nerves aflame with how desperate the apprentice sounds.

“Yeah? What do you need sweet thing?” He aims for comforting but comes across nearly equally desperate, forcing the muscles in his face to soften, well aware of the harsh cut of the lines defining his appearance. 

“Can you… can you put that spell back on me? I-I think the hunters broke it somehow. Please?” 

“What spell baby?” By now he’s almost huffing, straining to keep himself from shaking the boy and shaking the answer out of him, “What spell? Tell me sugar.” He’s on edge, put in an unfamiliar situation of not really knowing what his apprentice was asking for and not really grasping -why-.

“The one… the one that made me so blindly believe all your lies…” The words are bitter and nearly shy but they feel like a punch to the guts, knocking the air out of his lungs and before he can fully register the situation, his hand flies forward, the back of it landing against Rhys’ face with a loud smack. 

Jack stares down at his own hand with surprise, as if it was the root and a solution to all of his problems. For a split second, he can see himself lurching forward, fingers, now uselessly twitching, finding resistance when he’d wrap them about boy’s throat to drag him under the water and just… keep him there, until he’d learned his lesson, until he stopped flailing and Jack’s heart would finally stop being a fucking menace the moment Rhys stopped breathing. 

A hesitant ‘please’ makes his eyes snap back to his boy, eyebrows pulling together when he once again struggles to place a more solid name to the emotions playing on Rhys’ face. He had never had troubles reading his apprentice like an open book, easily grasping the meaning behind that or another tilt of the corner of his lips or stuttered words but… But that was because he never did read the expressions on his face. Automatically, Jack tries to skip along the bond linking them only to skid to a halt just before he reaches a vast chasm now stretching between the two of them. 

He sucks a hissed breath in, finally able to locate the source of his discomfort, fingers curling into tight fists and shoulders hunching slightly as he subconsciously drops into a more defensive stance.

“Stupid thing…” Breaking a string of pleads, the Sorcerer tries hard as he might to hide his reaction, failing but the boy ends up misinterpreting the situation anyway, taking his sudden hesitation for anger. Not without a reason but that’s beside the point. Just because he knows what’s wrong, doesn’t make him any less antsy, so used to knowing -everything- about his apprentice that knowing -nothing- has him anticipating betrayal any moment now. “...there has never been a spell for that.” Bindings, leashes, collars and occasional prod this or that way, yeah but the trust stemmed from months of work Jack put into the boy. Now crumbled by his own hands.

This time it’s Rhys chasing after him, trying to place himself back into Jack’s arms, tugging the very same hand that has slapped him a moment ago and resting it over his reddened cheek.

“I don’t believe that. There had to be something. Please. Angel told me everything I… I don’t want to believe that you would betray me like that… What did I do wrong?” When the Sorcerer refuses to cooperate, too tangled up into the sense of dread rising in his chest, the boy grows more aggressive, now leaning over the edge of the tub, water dripping onto the floor and turning it slippery. The soles of Jack’s boots skid across the stone, gravity pulling him down just as the fists curled into the front of his shirt pull the boy out of the water. “I gave you my everything, and I took what you gave with grace and gratitude. Hell, I enjoy things you do to me just because it’s you but I -need- you to have my back. I will take the world by storm if you were to ask me but only, and only if I don’t need to guard myself from you.” Unlike Jack, his apprentice has no qualms about giving a few good shakes to the other man, holding him down with his bulk and letting a more corporeal manifestation of his powers snake over his master’s front. It only fuels the panic taking over him, clouding his judgement else he would have kicked the boy off and forced him down with a hand at the nape of his neck. “I need… Jack! Look at me dammit!” It finally manages to pull him out of his brooding, brain quickly catching up on everything that was said and a snarl curls the corners of lips up. 

“I need…no, I demand,” every straining word is stressed with one after another forceful tug, “your every -wrong- to be my goddamn right!”

Rhys sits back, flushed and with his chest stuttering around every breath, his clawed hand coming up to push damp hair back and out of his face before he brings the arm down, fingers snapping just before Jack’s eyes.

“I know you want -this-, always have, that was the deal from day one and I have never denied your claim to this power but you gotta take the whole package that comes with it.” Rhys makes a vague gesture towards himself, claws darting to dance along the edges of the scar running across his face.   
“Now with extra brands at no additional charge,” the boy finishes sounding more defeated than bitter and finally slumps down, all fight escaping him with a shaky exhale.

Jack struggles to keep his face neutral, slowly sitting up and the movement sends his apprentice sliding from his lap with a yelp when his bare ass lands against the cool stone. He leans forward but the boy doesn’t budge until they are mere inches apart, glaring at each other as the Sorcerer carefully gauges the truth behind those words. Not once has Rhys lied to him and when he finally dips his head forward and pushes his nose into the crook of the boy’s neck, he can only pick up the scent of his soap clinging to bruised skin.

“To hell with the parasite.” His voice, now having finally returned from its apparent holiday, is steady if quiet and while Jack doesn’t have anything beside the boy’s words to go by, he knows what he wants and he thinks he knows what Rhys wants. “You drive a hard bargain kid, but I think I can live with that.” When his arms come around the trembling body, his gesture is mirrored, just as possessive even as the boy finally relaxes into his touch.

“Promise?”

“Mhm.” The hum of his agreement turns into the tiniest of non threatening growls when the boy shifts slightly to put some distance between them, peeking through the swollen eyelids barely managing to part and through the eyelashes of his good eye.

“Sorry I made you slip…”

“Mhm.” That’s fine, he’s going to have a bruise over his tailbone but that’s just one of the things you learn to accept living with someone who is all elbows and knees anyway. The tilt of his head when he wants to go back to tucking his face under Rhys’ chin is halted with a tug to the back of his collar.

“Are you gonna say you’re sorry too?”

“Nu-uh.” He’s not ready to accept his mistake even to himself, even less, voice it.

“Jack?” Just how many more questions did this damned kid still have? Another non-committal sound prompts him to continue. “I’m cold.”

The Sorcerer urges his boy back into the water, scrambling to his feet with a grumble and a hand braced against the edge of the tub, the tips of his fingers briefly dipping inside to send a spark of his powers and bring the water to a more acceptable level of warmth.

This time Rhys doesn’t resist his attentions, eagerly if rather sluggishly trying to aid his master and dunking his head to wash away the suds unprompted.

He takes extra time working around the brand, a memory of its burn still fresh after so many years and he harbours so much pure hatred for that spiteful shape he needs some distraction because he can nearly feel his fingers itching to dig into the flesh around it and strip it clean from his boy’s face. The Sorcerer knows that there is no magic strong enough to fully heal it or cover but he chooses to wait till morning before he attempts to do -something- about it.

“Tell me everything that has happened. How did you get away sugar?” And this time Jack is far more sincere in his inquiries and praise lavished over his apprentice. 

-II-

“How fucking -barbaric-!” Jack sounds, and is, offended, running his thumb over the barely healed scar just below the boy’s chest. He fixes any residual damage with a touch of blood magic, just as he has fixed all the other wounds littering Rhys’ body. This one however, will scar badly, thanks to the witch hunters’ dumb healers who couldn’t do a proper job of it if their lives depended on it. He vows to take their lives for that anyway.

“Yeah, I know!” Rhys is back to his more perky self, sat by the hearth on a low, three legged stool and greedily soaking the warmth the flames gave off, wrapped only in a thick sheet and only sticking out this or that part of his body when it needed Jack’s attention. 

The Sorcerer takes a knee, moving the fabric aside to place his hand over the heart fluttering in his boy’s chest. 

“They were looking for me here, weren’t they?” A nod comes despite his question being purely rhetorical. “But that’s not where I am, right lad?” Another nod. 

“I suppose not…” It’s a gift, one which Rhys doesn’t seem to understand nor appreciate but the boy will get to live and die as his own person, without the threat of a call that could come one day, one that would make him blindly walk however many miles it would take, till his feet got raw and throat dried out, only to find an abandoned mask at the end of his journey and once he’d fit it over his face, he would spend the rest of his days trapped in the solitude of his own mind and with no control over his body. Jack is only mildly bitter about this fact because it sure must be fun having legs for days and an ass that you could bounce a pebble off only to have it hit you back in the face. 

“I can still feel that filthy man’s touch…” which would explain the renewed attempts at trying to shy away from the Sorcerer’s touch and the man sighs in exasperation. And here he thought that after their little heart to heart the boy would calm down, impatient hand wrapping again around Rhys’ wrist to keep him still. 

“You want me to do something about it, sugar?” A gentle prod from his powers tells him that there’s nothing there, that beside distasteful memories, the Knight Commander hadn’t left anything lingering in the boy’s chest. 

“Yeah, please?”

He needs to grab his glove and gauntlet, strapping it back and watching Rhys eye him anxiously.

“What is it? Scared?”

“No… I just hate that he has done that before you.” Even back when he had full insight into what went on about in that fuzzy noggin, the kid always tended to baffle him with the winding paths his thoughts seemed to wander. 

“It’s all about the quality not order. Can you trust me on this kitten? I can use my magic to make your heart pure again.” 

He never did need to place any dumb spells on his apprentice because the kid was just this naive, despite his previous scoffing and hissing, giving a nod and eagerly jumping onto the first chance to believe Jack’s lies. Even though this one was more of a white kind.

The Sorcerer drags the moment out, fingers skimming over warm skin, denying himself the pleasure of sinking his hand into the inviting flesh for a couple more minutes and entertaining himself with imagining how the boy will feel on the inside just for the kicks of it. The heart under his palm thrashes wildly against the confines of the ribcage, desperate to place itself in his hands and how could Jack ever deny this sweet thing its desires? 

He has plenty of bloodthirst and a taste for destruction but it doesn’t necessary mean he lacks finesse, the skill of his craft honed over the years and so when Jack’s fingertips breach the skin, there are no visible entry marks, flesh left unbroken. The boy sat before him trembles in barely contained excitement, slumping forward to push his master’s hand deeper and bringing his own to rest over Jack’s shoulders, needing to brace himself against the sudden feeling.

Jack has lived for many, many years but with Rhys… he somehow always find room for some novelty, another ‘first time’ he did not expect to discover. Just like right now, it’s not the first time he plunges his hand inside of someone’s chest but where he usually found resistance and spite, Rhys only offers surrender and a clawing desire for more. 

When he finally reaches the trembling muscle, they share a gasp, Jack’s at the insane smoothness of the flesh against the pads of his fingers and Rhys’ at… whatever the boy is feeling. The Sorcerer’s hand moves through the flesh, finding infinitesimally small spaces to fit into and only fully material at the point of most coveted contact. He knew, he just knew that while the apprentice’s skin could be ridiculously soft in places where the boy was left untouched for years, he’s a completely another level of smooth on the -inside-, his master catching only glimpses of it whenever he was sunk deep into the welcoming heat of an intimate moment. This however, takes intimacy much farther, the fluttering heart literally placed into his hand without hesitation or fear of possible death. He could easily snatch it, tear it from the boy’s chest and eat his heart out, yet what he does, is a gentle lick of his powers, superficial in its nature and given only to sooth Rhys’ worries as there is nothing tangible still sticking there and left in the wake of previous abuse.

“That better, sugar?” 

Placebo can be one hell of an effective drug, even more so when its only goal is to cure the absence of an ailment. The boy only replies with a long whine, ending in a name breathed out through parted lips. Jack has done all he could to ease his apprentice’s worry but he’s unwilling to retreat just yet, taking stupid amounts of pleasure in the silky texture, fingers brushing over a series of soft ridges to the left and gently pressing into the softer, grainy tissue at the top of it. By now he has his whole palm encompassing the rabbit heart dancing in his tender grip, an echo of that frantic stuttering in his own chest and with wild eyes fixed on his face. One blown wide, the other still staring through the slant of swollen flesh around the scar. He doesn’t need any bonds to know that his caress is well received, a deeper shade of flush spreading over the boy’s face and chest, hardly repressed trembles wrecking Rhys’ whole body with each pass of armoured fingers now lightly stroking along the intersection of veins and arteries. 

The apprentice is panting by now, completely undone by the profound affections and with his legs limply sliding to the sides, tucking his face into the curl of Jack’s other hand when the man moves it to rest it over the angle of his jaw. It’s warm dampness clinging to his skin with every puff of breath mixed with the nearly scorching heat of the fever burning his boy from the inside out that send Jack’s mind reeling with pure bliss, always a terrible sucker for every new shade of utter devotion the boy seemed to be a never ending well of. 

But Rhys, always encouraged to ask for more, seems insatiable, eyes darting over his master’s face before he makes a move of his own, clawed fingers briefly skirting over Jack’s chest before the parasite mimics the magic he’s using, easy and effortlessly and with little care for the spike of blinding envy burning in the space between the ribs it's violating. The Sorcerer jerks back, Rhys’ other hand tightly wrapping around one of his horns to keep him in place. He takes a deep, calming breath despite his mind swimming with mixing sensations, and wills his heart to come to a complete stop even before curious fingers can reach it.

“There is nothing for you there, child.” It’s hard to keep his voice level, even harder because the claws moving about inside of him are far from gentle, not due to any ill will but rather, with a childlike curiosity and innate clumsiness. 

Jack understands, doesn’t necessarily want to acknowledge it, but understands, that the sudden forwardness is reinforced with the same game his apprentice has been playing from the get go, shoving something into his master’s hands, his vengeance, his body, his services, his feelings, or heart for that matter, only to instantly take something for himself, Jack’s knowledge, protection, affections or love. And with the passage of time, they have turned from gingerly offered sacrifices to loud demands and hands greedily tearing down the Sorcerer’s defenses. 

“No, no, no, I swear I… I know what I felt…” Rhys is looking for the right words just as much as he’s looking for pulse, eyebrows knit in confusion. The kid is persistent, Jack has to give him that, but with persistence, comes a rush of light-headedness and an involuntary squeeze of his armoured fingers, chased with a stuttering sigh. The apprentice’s eyes wildly dart to where his own hand disappeared inside of his master’s chest, up to two golden irises and down again. The confusion is clear on his face but Jack would be damned if he didn’t want to make a statement here, glad to have enough control over his snatched body to keep the muscle stock-still while still forcing the blood to lazily roll through his body. 

He has had enough of the kid invading his space but the gentle pet along the curve of his horn before fingers move down to brush through the longer strands of hair has his resolve crumbling. The Sorcerer usually encouraged his apprentice’s relentlessness and thirst for knowledge and power, now unsure how he feels about it being somehow twisted and turned against him. Something darker, and something he’s more used to seeing in a mirror, crosses Rhys’ face before a squeeze forces a gasp through the narrow line of Jack’s lips, as if the boy was trying to jumpstart his heart, a couple more pumps, far less gentle but echoing the rhythm against the palm of Sorcerer’s hand finally manage to make the muscle drop back into the staccato of a double rhythm.

Jack gives up. There is no use building walls around himself only for the boy to come trampling over them and as his eyes flutter closed, he can catch a glimpse of an overly satisfied smirk. He’s tired, of people he cherishes calling him out on his bullshit lately, and in the end, the Sorcerer decides there is no harm in letting his boy have his fun. Especially if it meant Rhys would stop maltreating his poor, poor heart in favour of switching to a far more tender and pleasant touch.

“Aha! I knew it!” He wants the boy to finally shut up. “See, it does feel good, doesn’t it?”

Jack doesn’t answer but instead, only bows his head slightly to give the boy a better access to his horns, cursing on the inside when he realizes that despite what he has originally thought, his apprentice remembered a lot more details from that drug induced incident that has happened a couple of days ago. 

Shifting his wavering attention to the stuttering beat against his palm, he lets his fingers drift idly over the tender flesh just as he is letting mixing sensations build up. 

There is pleasure in how the boy feels under his touch, and there is some strange pleasure in how his own chest feels too tight and cramped, intimate caresses leaving a tingling sensation that weaves itself in between his lungs and crawls up the back of his throat. Joined by nearly electric sparks bursting at the base of one of his horns, it all begins stacking up, a structure that is wobbly at best, a jenga tower with too many blocks pulled loose. 

The boy is virtually melting under Jack’s ministrations, growing sloppy with the affections he’s offering, name beginning to slip between his quickened breaths tinged with a low rasp and veiled pleas. He can’t deny that he’s thoroughly enjoying the way it echoes around the room, his own breaths stumbling over one another with each element of the underpinning holding him together coming undone. 

It wouldn’t look like much to an outside observer, fingers petting through the older man’s hair or toying with the smooth curl of the horn, two heads bowed together and two hands disappearing within heaving chests with only tame twitches of the muscles moving under the skin of their forearms to belay what’s really going on, none of those things seemingly to blame for the persistent blush sticking to their ears.

But to the insider, it’s all about intermingling breaths, the warmth and the intimacy of vulnerability, one given completely willingly, the other needing… a little bit of an encouragement. Sometimes the lightest of touches can spark the wildest of fires and amidst the flames dashing between various points of contact, something inside of Jack breaks and the last block is pulled right from underneath the tower, everything that made it stand tall and proud scattering across the table. It’s incomparable to any physical feeling since it doesn’t carry the same implication of reaching the tipping point but in a way familiar, much more mellow and -dry- in its nature but still managing to shake him to the core. 

When he pulls his hand back and slumps down with his ass firmly planted against the hard stone, there are no traces left on his hand, nor are there any on Rhys’, nothing beside a pleased simper on the boy’s lips, slanted around the scar pulling at the skin of his cheek, and a dazzling hum at the base of Jack’s skull. 

-II-

It quickly becomes obvious that the night is taking its toll on the apprentice, and as Jack wraps him into the lush fabric of a sheet, one last question still remains unanswered.

“Hey, sugar?”

“Mhm?” The boy is all tucked in for the night, curled in his bed and slowly beginning to drift off to sleep when his words make him crack one eye open.

“Did you kill all of the knights?”

There is a momentary pause, Rhys lightly grazing his teeth over lower lip before his eyebrows pull together into a more apologetic expression. “No… master. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

Jack lets out a thoughtful hum, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes for a few more moments before his attention drifts back to his apprentice. 

“That’s good sugar.” Fully stripped of his armour, his unguarded fingers gingerly card through the boy’s slightly damp hair. “Hope you still have some of that vengeance of yours because we are definitely going back to get the rest of ‘em.” 

At first surprised, Rhys expression melts into that brilliant, idiotic smile of his and in the end, Jack thinks his lot in life isn’t going to be that terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaysus look at this monster had to cut it into two chapters man,  
> anyway, this marks the end of this uhh arc i suppose.  
> I am hoping for a couple filler chapters before i do the grand ending so yeah, stay tuned, and remember im up for all prompts for this au :^)

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways, I'm open to any and all ideas, I can work a lot of shit into the story if you give me prompts ;d  
> Hmu @ visnomer.tumblr.com


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